Stream of consciousness, or something. Very pointless.
“I am in the mood
to dissolve into the sky” - Virgina Woolf
She awoke,
ghostlike, to walk the streets in soles so thin the cobblestones
caressed her feet. No need to wait for the sun to rise, because the
touch of chilling air divulges a sense of feeling to remind her she
exists. Existing, however, is not living. Dishevelled sheets that
wrapped and entrapped her limbs were cast off with reluctance and
dismal sighs, imperceptible enough that only the dead could hear. Conscious
humans mostly avoid consciousness, and reject screaming signs of personal
suffering. Alone with everybody, we strut in our own skeletal, flesh-bound cages, in isolation so strained we only feign anyone else is ever permitted entry.
Plunging fog hung with inevitable thickness and her sharp spirit had lunged, long since trailing off, as the years coiled around her heart like a deep, dragging anchor. She had
become nothing, and in a sense that led to numbed contentedness,
maybe somewhere, merely unfelt. Her mark on the world should be as
silent as possible, erasable and untraceable. But how could emptiness
feel so heavy?
...No one knows you –
but you long to meld consciousness with another: quite simply, you can’t. No one
understands you – except you – and you spent your entire life
trying to figure yourself out, and now that you have, you wish you’d
never bothered...
There is no truth
except perception. Perception is always distorted.
Errant raindrops
flicked across her bare arms like intermittent tears, driving another smattering of sensation against deadness. Tears sparkled like diamonds against her skin. Nothing is forever, and they slowly disappeared. She wanted
to laugh but it would always ring hollow - and if her tears mixed with
the rain no one would know.
They wouldn’t want
to know anyway.
Empty streets yawned
before a tangled blur of faces rushed by with post-impressionist madness. They
left no impression – yet each one could be lost in their own
mangled confusion. Perhaps they were simply better actors. Perhaps
they were terrible actors in bland roles. Authenticity’s
nonexistence could be ignored for decades because ignorance is more
comfortable. Never open your mouth because you may say something
someone might not like. However, if we never gave a piece of our minds and
followed the crowd there would be anything but peace.
Her decaying mind was in
pieces, like dirty shattered glass, stained glass, strained glass
lying in a back alley – as she picked up a shard on the street it
bit her hand. Feeling to push through the fog. At some point we
become our own joke – we just aren’t in on it.
...I will have to teach
myself to smile and say “hello” again, like a dim, careless
child. Nameless, faceless, I had to stop learning to haunt myself. I
knew myself so well I couldn’t turn it off. Over-thinking and
over-feeling leads to the opposite of those things, and now I am
shrouded in numb confusion...
Singing clock chimes remind
her that time is nothing but a conveniently inconvenient construct, because her mind flings towards the past and projects towards the future with unhurdled
ease. Minutes in pain hang like hauling eternities, and those tiny
gems of joy evaporate in moments.
The only reality is
the mind, and it’s a flawed one.
This is everyone's truth.
