My own prison

Monday, 17 March 2014

There is nothing to say not really.  There's everything to say.  Words seem impotent at times and repetitive yet the meaning has been swallowed.  I'm trying to translate these thoughts but they're all vowels and jagged shapes.

Everything's grey.  Again.

So grey.

There's nothing I haven't said before.  There's everything I haven't said before.  It's all so rigid and pointless.

A perpetual state of drowning.

I wasn't waving.

Yet there was nothing to see here so it was inevitable that you essentially saw, nothing.

Look right through me, see right through me.

There's days when a crack of light seeps through making the shadows dance their truths.  My soul contorts and knots as it twists towards it, hungry for it's touch.  Guzzling the light so fast and so deeply it chokes.

Because it knows.  The inevitable.  The crack of light is but a crack and it's transient.  

This solitude is excruciating

& with the departure of the light, so goes the warmth.

Because it's not just grey.  It's cold.  Stone cold.  A coldness that paralyses.  A coldness that drains.

I'm afraid to start thinking in case I can't stop.  I'm afraid to stop thinking in case the thoughts freeze.  What if that's all I have?  All I am?  Thoughts.

& what if some of us simply have to be nothing?  What if without the nobodies the somebodies would cease to exist for everything needs it's opposite to anchor it's existence.

It’s like I’m spinning
or maybe it’s the world that’s spinning
and I’m unable to spin with it

So I shake myself by the proverbial shoulders and with angry inflections I impress upon myself the I have's in the hope it will eradicate lack of I am's

At times the drowning is violent, a fornication of the shadows and the light as they fight to dominate the other, yet I am the darkness, or the darkness is me.  It's exhausting, and essentially futile.

Other times there's an element of peace, when you give in to it for a while.  At first you float and then the sinking starts.  Without the struggle it's almost pretty, it always was the pretty things that kill us.  It's like gentle hands pulling and luring you downwards.  You belong here, they whisper.  They want you, they impress. The hard angles and rigid edges melt away, into shades of fluid grey welcoming you home.  You are the mermaid of this ocean, you're not drowning you're a part of it.  Don't speak, they can't hear you from here.  Shhh.  Don't struggle, it'll only exhaust you.  

Fingers smudge through the shades of grey as you read through the notes you wrote yourself upon the wall the last time you were here.  

everything blurs
and life is just 50 shades of grey
and yet I dream in colour
I sometimes wonder
if I found my voice
and used it to scream
would it shatter the grey
if I clawed at it
is there colour underneath
somewhere?
Trying to breath out without
breathing in
the grey turns to black
if you swallow
it swallows right back.


& then you remember, you can't scream under water.  As you choke upon the vowels.  Not all peace is peaceful.  This silence is terrifying.

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