Why do you folks walk that way?

My concentration shatters into a million tiny little pictures. Of shapes and curves and straight lines, of flattened hair and ?-tinted eyes and I have to piece it all back together in order to stay shane.

I want to wake up. I want to drown with my clothes on, for a while. I want to disappear into a green park which can be seen from above on the rooftops, but which you'll miss if you walk right outside. I want to eat something warm. I want you to call me Persephone.

And I don't want any more inside information, no, I'm done with them, folks.

The archetype & me

I had a really random dream last night, about a guy I've talked to maybe once. We were just sitting and talking and working on some project together. I woke up in a nice mood, presumably, it had to do with the light that had filled the bedroom from the windows my parents had opened.

I want to wake up like that every day, but I can only sleep in the dark.

I lie facedown and turn pages, I can feel my bones on the matress, I realize; I am looking more and more like her every day.

There's no crowd in the streets and no sun

Idle days pass by between books, bedcovers and cherries. I watch shadowed curtains ripple, lulled to sleep by the unobtrusive sound of air condition. (I, not the curtains. They never sleep) There's much to do, most of it compulsory, but books are beginning to make sense. It's a relief, among all the spoken words that don't.

I now realize that I have only one piece of a puzzle so giant I walk on it and see it spanning everywhere. How can I expect of myself to make sense of things? It's impossible.Everything is interpretation. Clarity comes again a little too late for preserving an avɑ̃taʒ for long, but less so than before. I shall be able to create and hold on to worth soon. I know.

I also know that I am not this four letter word, I am another. In my head, every day. There's my piece.

In my own Summer

I hate the furnace of the city. I hate its burned white, the swarm of cars and the noise.

I even hate the small, off-center streets with their trees, because they're uneven and narrow and cluttered. With randomness. There is a dusty car with a framed photo on top of it. There is a wall with open wounds painted over with vibrant colors. Why must I be witness to all of the sickness radiating from the structure (or lack thereof)? I just want to get my books, go home and deal with my states of mind.

The observer

All the songs of my life sting at the edges and sit down like rocks at the pit of my stomach. So does my prose, blue-tinged and ultimately devoid of hope. I live with the feeling that, innately, there is nothing worth bothering about in the world. The feeling that perceived goodness can and will come back to bite you. And that evil will fill you with a sense of nostalgia.

Children play merrily with a football at the parking of my house. Two of them have identical haircuts, all of them have no care in the world. Their mothers observe them from haphazardly parked cars, sporting classic "I am a working mommy " short haircuts. But, why the hell am I observing their hair? Why, WHY am I so acutely aware of the fact that I'm observing their hair?
I look at the scene, take in the sounds of laughter, the smell of summer, their hurried motions, the feel of warm bread and salt on my hands, trying to drown out the awareness of it all. The football smashes into the closing door, and for a moment, I have suceeded.

A reflection in sepia

There's always something sinister about streets with ruined buildings. It's like the dead houses disintegrate into the air, into the ground, like the deadness bleeds into the plants and the walls nearby. Animals act strange in those streets, their wide eyes fixed on invisible points, or they avoid them altogether. The wind blows strangely and the lighting is warm and orange, like it's old light, a reflection in sepia of earlier times.

There is a point at the street down my house where, precisely today, precisely at the time I was passing by, I could see the moon risen above the rooftops and at the same time, look at the traffic mirror in front of me and gaze into the downward slope of the street behind. I felt as if I was standing at a huge X on the ground, where two lines cross, where I could see things that are hidden. A place where I could see the most of the world. The coordinates would be denoted as Xopt, Yopt. Or rather (X,Y)opt. It would be a function of time. T(x),T(y).

This is a time for shifting chairs in balconies and climbing up on rooftops. I want the concrete to dust my clothes, scrape my hands, warm my core. I wonder if my psycho neighbour will chop me into bits, then shoot me in the head and feed me to his baby boy if I dare throw a party.