To begin, you must start. There is no way around this.
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.
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.
Some nights, you come real close. So close, you can taste the sleep, you can smell it. It smells like dripping saliva and warm cotton cloth.
In the dead of the night, the clock blinking at 2:43 a.m., you feel like a corpse dragged out from the grave. Immortality forced down a mortal.
You feel wrong.
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.
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.
In the end, it is your heart that will guide the knife to your throat.
I run for pain, the excruciating burn of desire. I burn for the exquisite absence of thought.
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.
The clock struck midnight and she was gone.