Now for something personal, penned and published a while ago.
I have become incommunicado, by choice. Exiled. Fenced. Disappeared. From their memories, from their lives. I’ve been cauterized by the overwhelming, exacting scoria disposed of this leftover life. To pen something evocative on a vacant page has suddenly morphed into this colossal task that I’ve purposely deviated from, choosing, instead, to tighten the lid on all that’s bubbling within. Cosmia rising. Ascending peaks of laconic silences. Whispering madness into the damaged pinnae.
Of what consequence is all this yearning? It will always be about finding, rewinding, regretting and finally, relinquishing. All love measures to this. All life unravels the same way. In different quarters.
There is an intense throbbing that everything is turning grayer than the skies outside, that the place of belonging doesn’t really exist but in some forsaken realm of a caduceus spirit. Its withering, this desire to stay and make good of whats given. What if this is not her life?
Body parts merge. Les Demoiselles d’Avignon. Numbers fall from space. 12, in banal literary gambles that paid off. 30, up in the irreverent smoke that screams his arrival, again. 5, for the blind towns that played reluctant witness to this unfolding. 2, for both of them. 1, for my only me.
Commence the pain. Inner Exit to Eden. Blasphemy, they’d cry! Do not catechize for comprehension. Do not seek. Will not disappoint.
I am a willing victim. I am a capable executioner. I am the fusion experiment, you can’t deny. I am dying in your embrace. I am disintegrating, one metallic piece per second.
I have to find a real antecedent. A better reason. A bigger door.
Life is still breathing remorse in my ears. I think I still am inept at readjusting the “feelings” vector. I am escaping this coz I need to. Not solely coz I want to. To avoid becoming the empty city streets, they never sleep. Or the solitary dawn in my own coffee mug. I feel turned inside out. I can’t procrastinate my living anymore. I shouldn’t. Haggling with Time is no more an option. I can’t wait for the next life to be the real one. Meantime is the Quarantine.
Venture out. Somewhere. Anywhere. But not here. Porcupine Tree for the Inner Music Whore. My words aren’t stringed together, perfectly, yet. My camera is new and my technique raw. But I am ready. In spite of me, I am ready.
“You are not close enough for me to dislike you..”
Is that why you wait for 6 months just to release your venom because of something I wrote or something I said in a fit of anger?
Denial is a bloody consuming game.
And you will find out if this one Love’s caressing some other Lover..
