Words are sculptured from stones and emotions are expressed from roses, yet the meaning is lost in the falling rivers of hell. How can I tell the long night about my nothings? Shall I sing and be heard through the broken lock? What a rusty voice … I have been silenced for a long time by the scratches in the walls.
The crying child inside my eyes, whose wrists are suffocating from chains, can be heard and so is the old broken lady who is melting in the boiling blood in vain. My hollow soul splashes in grey and as it rains sorrows I choose to feel nothing. How can I write about nightmares that begin with a creak?
How can I tell stories about the evil eye watching me through that keyhole like a circus freak? Dark smoke flows in the pupils of my eyes staring back at me in that mirror which draws me into my fading self. Pain peaks, pain smoothly slips on his toes through the cracks like a diamond thief. My demons are playing music in the ruins and it’s keeping me tamed as heat escapes along with those frozen emotions whom I blame.
I hear crashes waking up the sleep and I see flying ashes making screaming faces at me. The numbers are escaping the clock running away towards infinity and the shadows whom I used to hunt are haunting me. The sky made firestorms of insanity which are ripping my house up and breaking it down. I stood alone and wept until the Phoenix emerged and gave perfervid love to my beginning.
The sun woke him up kissing his soft lips as she embraced him with warmth to say I love you, his colourful sheets tied his young body forbidding him to leave, the pigeons made love to him through his window with their beaks, untying himself he walked up to the pigeons and they flew lightly, the sea stared at the depth of his eyes with admiration.
He decided to greet the morning with a smile that made the crumbled bread on the Rambla street goes toast. He lived a day with the roses trying to catch his scent, with the country laying paths of glory for him to walk on, with the dancing birds around his head and the sky above him changed her colours when the sun buried herself in red.
The moon then came jealous playing the Moonlight Sonata on his flawless skin to keep him up until his seductive dreams pulled him in saying – “My turn” in thirst for life.
Everything I ever wanted took a form of a man. A man who struts before me like a breathtaking peacock. His eyes look at me with pity stripping my soul off as if they say: “You can look but you can’t have.”
It was a foolish act, the way they barged into the scene. The tears, which were streaming on their full rosy cheeks, looked ridiculous. The funeral was funny … Guests came to eat, drink and laugh. The air was contagious like a deadly virus … I felt sick to my stomach. He was an old lonely man and he meant nothing to any, this is sad and everyone is busy stuffing their faces to notice. I had an urge to laugh at them, but I suppressed it.
You think I’m mad? I have to go through hell back and forth, a beast within a man, a man within a beast. The hair, the itching, the twitching, the new skin, the fingers curling … You think you know how to feel like Gregor Samsa? I’m sure not Gregor but I can relate! The great rise in temperature, I’m not sick but I am.
To where I run, to whom? I can’t but run into my unfortunate victims, they can’t run either. I have this effect on them, where they freeze … I’m sure it’s my irresistible charm and that smile of mine. Darkness is my only friend; where I live. A part of me is the shadows of the night.
I can’t hide from what I am and they can’t hide either. My hunger for human flesh doesn’t make me inhuman, my needs and imperfections are enough proof to my humanity. I show my inner beast and you hide yours but it doesn’t make you better, you hypocrites.
My mother, who is obsessed with order, told me today -“Stop building castles from sand, it will only create waves of rage and drown you.” Dying inhaling my dreams sounds like a good escape to me. I built my castles of sand and it will not break, but fly with the wind and settle everywhere chaotically like petals do when seasons change.
I want my dreams to be everywhere and out of order. I’d rather drown in my beautiful dreams than to be choked with the bare hands of reality; the serial killer of love and fantasy. It is the air in this sick world that is suffocating, I’d rather drown my head in emotions which are carried under those overwhelming waves of rage.
I’m laughing at the number 16 … It was just three years ago. How was I three years ago? Skipping is the word to describe it … Skipping school, skipping dinner, skipping days, skipping family time, skipping in a dreamland of my own creation; in my imagination where I have it all figured out. Looking back, nothing much has changed.