I got myself a journal yesterday.
Leather bound, copper colored, single lined, thick journal. The pages so blank and unnumbered. I can hardly wait to put pen to paper, and just lose myself with words that will eat the entire space up. I can almost see it in my head. Big words and bold words. Crossed out words-- mistakes, errors. All in black ink. Black felted ink. Probably splatters of ink, leaked in between sentences and pages.
But for now, it is an empty journal. Void of any form of life or emotions.
The storm that came last night left us with a beautiful clear day and also a power cut in the earlier part of the morning. I remember standing in the midst of a storm just two nights ago. My right hand clenching that familiar white tin can that swirled with blue and red patterns and labels. The rain felt like needles against my bare skin. It soaked me to the bones, pressed my hair down onto my face and blurred my vision. I was cold and in pain. I was alive.
It felt like an exact manifestation of the storm that lives inside me. It comes without warning, but when it does, it outlives itself. Thunderclaps and streaks of lightning ran across the jet set night, giving us glimpses and flashes of the landscape around and beyond.
I shook and shuddered under it's power. Standing both in awe and fear. I realized, I was afraid. Not of the world outside, but within. I am scared of this world I've built for myself. My own realm of nightmares, and the craziest things I do to myself, in efforts of protecting my sanity. Was it all in vain? Am I losing it instead?
I try to find solace in every way possible. Regardless of means or methods, or even consequence. I feel like a spark, jumping onto any form of electricity, without thinking. It grows and swells with brightness and warmth only to slowly fade and die away.
I have been lifted up so high, so many times before. I have found bliss, in a plenty of things but how short lived they were, I cannot even begin to understand. I feel like the further I run, the closer and much more real I come in contact with the very thing I was running away from.
Twisted, isn't it?
My football player's. Warmth? Comfort? Solitude?
Momentary.
Perhaps, surreal.
I can't shake out from the feel of your arms around me.
And the night you cried, because leaving now seems easier than leaving then.
I wish you knew the depth of how much I cared.
It'll be okay, I say.
I lied.
You'll live as a memory, distant and nonreturnable.
And the night you cried, because leaving now seems easier than leaving then.
I wish you knew the depth of how much I cared.
It'll be okay, I say.
I lied.
You'll live as a memory, distant and nonreturnable.