-guide to the functional

if you are the type of person who breaks before the gunshot- if you have ran harder than ever when your body screams at you to stop- if you have hit the ground dying so you can fall to hell in pieces- then congratulations. We will consider your proposition. When you are ready. The end is yours to keep.

Voice

A year then? Futility.

My heart tells me I have been voiceless forever and yesterday.

Forever and yesterday, the end feels so far behind, I imagine I am yet to cross it.

Faulty Taps

Dreams surface with filters and edits: mine come out gray scale. I sleep wearing clothes I do not own, with a face I do not own, a face that is not a face at all, but a grayish blur of flesh.

Did I dream it this way? I wonder.

I hold breath in, I remember the leaking, the endless leaking, I shiver. Cold washes over me. Not over me, but under, cold sweeps under my skin and over my bones and I shiver with an uncontrollable urge to laugh, as if I’m being tickled from the inside.

drip. drip. drip.

Monster

I have a darkness within me, and like the shadows streaming from the light, it has tied itself to my soul. We are entwined together, this monster of mine, we are soulmates, in the purest sense of the word.

Cut this chord, and I am as lifeless as a puppet without strings. Cut this chord, and I lose, I am lost.

When dreams die.

Today, you may have a purpose, a will to keep going, and it might vanish into thin air tomorrow, no warnings, no explanations.

I fear the day where I will not want to keep dreaming.

I fear the moment where I will stop and decide that it isn’t worth it.

I fear the empty-hearted, empty-eyed life I could live, if only I closed my eyes and slept.

Faith

Them, with their iron-clad blindness, leaping from the cliffs, coming back whole, euphoric. I saw it with my own eyes.

Us, with our memories, our scars, snickers and sneers.

Faith, this single, impenetrable divide, soaked in blood, brewed in death.

Paper doll

In the end, it is your heart that will guide the knife to your throat.

Vitesse

I run for pain, the excruciating burn of desire. I burn for the exquisite absence of thought.

The Heart of a Crowd

Perhaps for all our worries about our individual existence, we are indeed nothing more than one among many.

A single artery of a heart, pulsing and throbbing on impulses from our milieu.