I walked the cold streets of the city, hugging myself against the cackle of the lightning and beggar smiles, toothless grins made by the machines, deus ex machina. On far away corners of the alleys, the far away crevices of brain neurons and its activities, shadows lurk like cliché gothic anecdotes from pagan songs about heartbreak and self-mutilation. They dance longer and more intricate when time elapses into a slow rhythm, a tempting image of boys kissing girls kissing boys and not telling their parents or lovers about these indiscretions, what they don’t know won’t hurt them, what they think would soon eat the apple’s core, spit out seeds of fucking werewolves and the vampires, cleverly named with internet handles. I walk the streets alone but the streets are not empty, it’s a barren land of fever dreams and flowers jutting out on concrete and soot and dirt and malice.
And these thoughts haunt me. Apartment Building A is so long away, too far and too pricy not to hear that voice at the back of my head, a voice with clear statements about overdue conversations and horny teenagers – rhyming trust with rust like a kindergarten poet of the playground. It amazes me how long I could stomach all the weaved excuses, all the falling down and getting back up, the scabs and bruises on my knees are maps of a cord torn from a mother’s womb to a fetus’ belly, showing great strength of conviction on being blinded, revolving around the sun too close for comfort. Who’s comfort? Certainly not mine for I cherish every moment the sun burns the wax on my wings, sending me to deep pits – only to get back up and stitch myself with Styrofoam and hopelessness as freedom.
The lightning claps and the thunders roll, but the rain won’t drop to wash away all these insubordinate clauses of distance and I miss yous. The beggars with the war torn eyes try and hand me moonshine to dull away the sun burnt wounds etched and traced on my figure, they say its nothing but an empty bottle to fill, I tell them my tear ducts are as empty as this glass ornament they hand me, rage is not an emotion I hide quite well. Footsteps echo into a poorly lit sidewalk, the streetlights don’t provide any sight, we are blind in this masquerade of pitiful human emotions, we hurt ourselves more than we hurt others and I take into account that I’m nothing but a pawn in a chess game, a rat shocked again and again if it grabs the wrong cheese, we hide away in masks, that we are not evil men. Checkmate.
I ask the voice not to talk to me like a friend, I’m not your friend, right this moment of time slowed down to a halt, nothing but a verbatim of crud in our feet, the dirt left at this same street we thread. Their words echo like the footsteps, laughing at the expense of the gap that grows bigger or smaller, a glass half-empty or half-full depends on the way you look at it really. I light a cigarette and clutch it close like it’s a shield from the unwavering anxieties of the early morning parade of wistful moments, an exhale of “its best not to say anything right this instant,” the air filling with smoke like a mist so we could pull away from punches thrown like curve balls. It’s unhealthy to talk to oneself when you can release frustrations by leaving a wall bloodied and squealing like a stuck pig.
Drawing closer, nearly out of breath from walking or swimming with the ghosts of the pavement, maybe we are better off with friends. All the pretenses of bearing everything out in the open is killed and mauled by words without merit. All the thoughts that cloud judgments would keep hanging around like teen suicides, I could only hope these could be swept at the welcome mat before I enter my one bed room apartment of claustrophobic proportions. I want to sleep well come day break. And if day breaks, the only recourse is to fix it. The city lights are brighter at night for a reason, but amongst the back ways we could see better, the passages are darker but there is no hindrance in sight – we are blind but we can see clearly. A man I admire once said: “It’s never anything, until its something.”
.121107.
