Lost in Crazy..

In the past two days I discovered that somethings are too overwhelming for our perception that it could be tooooooo damn surreal even when sober. I mean the sights we see are just too strange. Too foreign and too uneasy.That they just don't quite register. Like seeing bright light after dark. Or realizing a thought that was there all along but hidden. Or putting your cold hands in hot water. A distortion of the normal that our brains is so used to. An embodiment of theory into a real life slap to the senses.

"Like skin tastes but a bit sweeter"

Because you used those truths that only stood between the frames of that little moment and got trenched into lies a moment after. And I never liked the feeling of being lied to.

It isn't about them being gone. Or about all the death that happened between us. It is about them waking up one day and realizing that they did better.

Does it make you wonder about all your failed quests? Is it hard to prove something to yourself when you don't know what are you proving?  Are you realizing what you already know, about your shivered boneless spine? There is this overwhelming flood of excitement that climaxes to empty into nothingness. . A Nothing of no emotional memory. A Nothing with bland motion-pictures in random order. And there is this subtle aching anxiety of waiting, waiting for all the lies to transcend into honesty.   Remember the time you were given the courtesy of sincerity? Never. Because cowardice has always been a safer bed to sleep in. I'm sorry baby, I can't share it with y ou .

There is always this fine line between madness and sanity. Emotional maturity and you being dragged all over the floor. It gets harder to slip back into what you know you are after getting this far Building. . Polishing. . Nurturing. . Accepting. . With huge chucks of Denying here and there. . We've been always here searching for this great Resolution, but it doesn't seem to be knocking on our doors anytime soon. Impressed? Look again. This is supposed to be amusing, at least for someone.. or something.

PH=2.3 "I ran out of handing you chances to say the right things, when you never do." PH=5 "-Let me be there for you when you need someone. -What I need you for is something you cannot offer." PH=9 "It is about me being put on the shelf again." PH=13 "Because I thought you'd be different. That that was you for the first time in all those years actually stepping up." PH=14 "Because you only ever want me when I'm someone else's" And this is how bitterness grew.

Let him be. Let him go on. He'll grow back ever too beautifully, forgetting the hard bitter amber, that grew out of the barks of his trees. And his two little bright stars glittering under the rain, will shine again shortly under a less jaded sun. Trees dream of a different soil, but will die taken out of their own.

I used to write. I used to write a lot when experiences were novel, when emotions were raw and original. But in a life where everything is tainted by a curse of perpetual returns and same old frustration feelings become rather banal, and too bare to be written.

It doesn't matter if you were the one that left, because they've left a hollowness inside. It doesn't matter really, because you've always been too apprehensive to admit to that wretched perforated little organ you call a heart.

Could this be your world in reverse, the denial into believe, the un-loving for what should be loved. Time.. life.. people.. washing off the significance of lost times and hearts. To all the maybes of what used to be to what it is now. Or isn't. That tune that plays singing to the little souls we were and the great desolations. Not long ago I was so strong heartedly in-faith to what in-love you used to be. Time.. life.. people.. and that fear for myself of how light I made it weigh in this parallel universe that shares no room in space with others. And I'd never understand why "nothing" cannot be a relation.

My bright beautiful little thing, All hidden wrapped up with my heart's strings in fear of you chocking up on them.

The thing is that I'm older now, and as I grew, I grew out of my need and helplessness. And it all gets easier when what's holding you down isn't your weakness, but stupid principles that you lost faith in long ago. If I'm trying so hard here you better be doing the same or else fuck you for throwing all the blame in my face. I don't know what to be, but I think that the apple had fallen far far away from the tree and all that bullshit. Blood.. is thin when you spill it all over the floor. Love.. feeds nothing but those tiny butterflies that die shortly as lumps in your throat. Time.. is all there is, so whatever crumbs I got from that saved you a whole loaf. And I.. have no value nor appreciation for half-assed jobs.

See there is a wall, and there are all those raw sentiments of emotion wrapped up pretty nicely in "not cares" and active denial. With the right sniff of never really knew me at all.

The complexion of your darker skin against mine,  The fluttering of your eyes, And me breaking your ribs because I fell in love with the sound of their crack .

Like water, like soap, like spilling beautiful blood on a porcelain floor. Like tearing apart your skin. Like looking into the sun and losing sight of everything else, then falling into the dirt.

You learn a thing or two over time; like to never lay in his arms after your vessels burn, to not to need him beyond the point of conscious realization, to skip the long breathes after his kiss, to keep your being wrapped in cushions hard to caress indeed, but harder to shred, to cut deeper than your scars, to impulsively love yet retreat when you're still winning, And most importantly that the heart fibrosizes once, beyond that you're only dancing outside.

I'm weak, I'm alone, forever searching for the stuff to fill for the missing pieces in my heart.