I knew I belonged to the public and to the world, not because I was talented or even beautiful, but because I had never belonged to anything or anyone else. -Marilyn Monroe

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing. -Sylvia Plath

Some things just make more sense than others.
Yeah.
If you knew, if you figured out that essentially, there is nothing about me. That's all there is to it. Nothing.

Maybe Tomorrow.

I look around at a beautiful life
Been the upperside of down
Been the inside of out
But we breathe
We breathe

Yeah, we breathe. Every night, every single night, the godless minutes pass with excruciating slowness and I'm left begging to feel. I beg, and plead, and cry- just to be able to feel. Something, anything. Throw a bone at me, give me a little, don't abandon me, Hope, please don't. And even in this numbness, I can't stop deconstructing. Can't stop looking for signs, for meanings behind why I am this way- it just never comes to me. All I know is I find myself being able to empathize with why he may have chosen to die. And I never even knew him, hadn't heard of him till he was gone. And yet, I feel this affinity with him.
Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for all that I have, because it's a lot more than most people do. But it's a series of pyrrhic victories, pointless battles won, things conquered. For what?
I'm here, but I'm here for them- not me. Because I don't comprehend why. I could be standing at the sidelines, an anonymous observer of my own life. Although I'm controlling it.

I can't-won't- talk. There's little, if any, good that comes out of talking. I've exhausted all I had to say to anyone, and all I do is sit, and wait, and watch. And I still can't see anything.

So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home

Yes.

An hour knocks on the door and
Upon finding it shut, slides under the crack,
Slithers in uninvited to tamper with my memory
To laugh at some incomplete recollection of
A windy day followed by
A foggy night.

A Mind as hazy, as hazy as that which
Caused these beads of thought to slip
Off a string that came lose with a
Slight tug
At the nape of her neck, that night
That passed so restless and alive
In the solitude of survival,
Of pretending that we are, indeed, alright.


One of the strangest things we, as emotional creatures, do is try to attribute shreds of meaning to our mundane existences. We all bump into mental blocks, fall to pieces, get back up and then- we fall again. It's a lot to process, because when all you're doing is getting through life without ever really knowing what the point is and without even trying to attach significance to it, all you're in for is a tough time. And then one day, as you're staring into space, it hits you, this hollow epiphany- it's not a phase. It's just life.

Desertscape.

It's a wave-no, it's something else- a bubble is bursting somewhere, a song is dying, there's a clandestine parallel pathway that's operating in the very same godless microcosm we call life. I watch you build it up to a perfect falsetto and then, it's sudden, your voice dies mid-perfection. I will never encounter another one like that, never fulfill my lust for the flawless. It was an almost, but it was a not-quite too, and wavering back and forth between the two I see the impossibility of forever.
What is sacred, what has ever been to you, I ask you now as we sit in this cosy cafe waiting for our orders and the pianist's fingers linger over the keys of his bread and butter- like a ballerina, they go back and forth, back and forth, as I wait for an answer that you can give me. But it's lost to you as well, I can tell when I see you, when your voice is a croak that never became you. It always revealed your lies to me.

I would get up, walk away and leave, run into the streets of Amsterdam, Paris, Rome- wherever we sit in my imagination- only to find myself in the Sahara. Because what are you, if not a mirage? Illusory, delusional, a falsification, breathing here to crumble my sand castle. There will be nothing left when the water washes away our lives and our loves, the sea comes back to purge every now and then. This desert was once a sea, an ocean,a habitat. No more now, no more. From dust, to dust- This is us, unhinged and unraveled, as we wait for the champagne and the oysters, over-romanticizing the loss of romance, because an opportunity for glamour is not to be missed.

But inside, here, in my mind, I am parched. I am waiting, and there is an oasis that never was, will never be, calling out.

If anyone wonders why I never erase any part of my life from here, any of my loves, it's because here are pieces of my life spread out in the best way I can put them, and this is one jigsaw that can't be erased.
So I might as well let it be, on the www and for real.
You just can't change it, and hey, it's been beautiful at some point, hasn't it?

The reason, I realised, that I don't make friends is that I think people are very, very unreliable. It's not a trust deficit, it's something else. Every single time I've tried to make an effort with someone has turned into that person and me drifting apart for no apparent reason. And my problem is, I have too much of an ego to make an effort with too many people. So, I stick to my lot, the people I've loved, hated, tried out, spend a significant amount of time with, and they're still there.
And I guess I'm fairly alright.

Except that, every once in a while, you think back about that one "friend" who drifted away, who you had a wonderful bond with, and it makes your feel wistful. Because there was something there that someone lost along the way.
And that is sad, if not tragic.

Hole-65daysofstatic

"You're so mournful, ever so mournful, always so mournful." She said, emphasizing the tragedy of the situation as she took a delicate bite of the chocolate donut she held in her hand. ("Ishouldn'tbeeatingthis, I'msupposedtobeonadiet" says the voice in her head, and like all other unpleasant voices, is drowned out on a whim.)

"Truth is, I just don't see it anymore, me- who am I? What is this, what are we? How wonderfully existentialist of me to ask, how very Ayn Rand- perhaps one day I'll be one of those high-flying career women without a love but with..what's that word...job satisfaction? Yeah, and a six figure salary.
What's that? Expectations? I hate that word, though I do have an awful lot too, of course, don't we all? But I despise it. It sounds dirty, and cheap, like a trash fiction romance that we all want (admitit, tit? No. It. MovingON)in our lives but will never confess to. And yet we have them (expectations, not trashfic romances), will keep on nurturing them until they kill us from within- or maybe not. You can't kill that which never lived, yeah? Yeah.
Don't look at me so reproachfully with those pretty eyes, honey. You know all this is nothing new, I'm just saying it so it seems to be. We've heard it a lot, you and I, that the world is no place for us-primarily from ourselves. Believed it too. So I know, I know it's a bit of a shock when the high heavens don't open up to mark your passage into some transcendental, parallel reality. You're as normal, as ordinary as that clerk who's stuck in a strictly average 9-to-5 job, as that beggar who(that?) was knocking with his filth encrusted knuckles on your car's window. It's just that the filth is within you. It's your heart that's covered in it.
Don't be so defensive. It's only just me, and I know you inside out. I see you everyday, we've spent our lives together. You can't hide that face from me, you know it too."

She finished eating that donut, daintily licked the tips of her fingers, moved from in front of the mirror. Monologue over.

Overdue.

I've never seen her cry. Except that one time, when he was dying, and she was struggling to make that decision about whether she should have him put on life support or not. She decided against it, because she's a strong woman. I've known people who have put loved ones on life support in the vain hopes of a turn around, a full recovery that never happens. It's an empty reassurance, telling yourself that there is a tiny sliver of hope as long as their heart is beating, as long as that oxygen mask mists over with the machine-breath. You feel like your words are getting through to them, and any moment now their eyes will open slowly, and they will smile and all will be well.

Too bad life isn't an episode of Grey's Anatomy. The Merediths in our world aren't such resilient survivors, I will tell you as much.

Point being, I've never seen her cry. They wanted her to sign his life away, but it wasn't because they cared. It was just a matter of wanting to get it over and done with. It's a fact I've become accustomed to in the past five years that have made us feel like unwelcome strangers to an exclusive party. It doesn't make a difference to me, things rarely ever do. But it devastates her in some way, I can tell because she talks about it repeatedly. And I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and tell her "It doesn't make a difference. They're not our family, not your relatives, not his relatives. It really doesn't make a difference." But she's my mother and I'd be violating some code of conduct if I were to do that. Besides, we're not very expressive as a family. No hugs, no kisses, nothing of that sort. And I'm perfectly fine with that.

She cried then. Didn't make a show of it like they did, but she cried, and didn't eat for two weeks. I wonder what she thinks every year on the day he went. 17 years is a long, long time.