Today I felt like hanging tears on the
pin-board. I just wanted to put a pin
tip in every single one of them with a merciless, yet docile finger tap. I felt
like lobotomizing them in honor of a missing thing. But I came to realize
there weren’t any of them left. It’s like they’ve vanished. No more mournful, nostalgic tears, nor tears of joy or sorrow. Will I taste their skin on my chin? Or will
the rain simply lend me hers? Who knows?! Have the clouds had a nervous
breakdown that it rains so eerie?
With dust now laying itself to rest on
the raspberry tea turned scarlet in the cup, something’s a miss. A miss of
substance, a miss of content. A miss of.... Who? What? When? I guess you never
get to see these questions’ answers in a translucent picture as much as you
tried. If it misses, why doesn’t it hurt, as if famine is ravaging your
intestines? Or is this pain you feel when you miss something? Is nothingness
something or its absence causes severe damage to the soul? I take another sip
from the teacup with my desert dry lips. Still, it rains. Mindless, careless,
word whisperer! You’ll never know peace as you can never break out of the imprisoning tower you resume your claustrophobic world to! If that is what
makes us humans, how come most of us seem to be free? In fact, are we actually
free from ourselves and the others? Do we ever rid ourselves from the mold that
consumes our latent soul cellars?
My hand’s been overrun with cavities. My left
hand has cavities. Its bony structure can no longer stand its state of decay. But
I can no longer feel the hurt the cavities cause to my nervous system. I’ve
shut down for a while. I need to sleep, I need to rest. I fatally need to rid
myself of myself. The only things I can reach now for are a chit-chat here and there with solitary widow ling-spiders and scarlet cockroaches
living on the putrefied pavement underneath the kitchen sink. Somehow, I no
longer care about how it all dies off. It’s a universe ready to spill it’s last drooling and breath once I finish this never ending line I write. It’s the final
act of a puzzled-play and the main character is missing from its place. Where is
it? Better said, which one is it? What shape does it have? I dread the day I
find the answers to these riddles that have obvious answers. I fear it will all wear
off, I fear that I will wear off as well and then, then.... I’d have to start
it all over again and so forth until the end of.... the end.
Seven sirens with the voices of a
thousand wailing banshees grunt from the wombs of my old radio and I‚m hanging
rotten rag dolls on top of the threshold. Poetry of the dead is spurned through
Seria’s meows (she’s been starving for centuries now!) and the buffoon is dancing tango on a turnip’s
flute shouts with a dead ballerina. I, we, we all started with a collective glimpse
of light, but it’s got far too close to a pulsar now! We all succumb to not
feeling anything and not remembering anything. Why don’t we care anymore? We are
nothing but a bunch of sitting ducks. What can’t we feel or remember? What should
we ignore and forget? Why do we lack the lacking of it? What is it? Who is it? When
is it?
We’ve been aging and we still are. Blank
expressions scar our heads and spoiled mascara runs down our cheeks in rivers. Build
me a prison-tower out of the words I collect from the engravings I do on the
coffee-stained paper. Build us a home, I muttered! Build it! Build a twig-bird-cage for our corroded shards of
heart to keep! Help us keep forgetfulness for as long as possible! Agony, oh
agony! Why can’t we remember? We are still dancing and hoping around like
escapees from an asylum. In a world so tern such as ours, delusion is at home
and we along with it. But what are we forgetting Can we forget forgetfulness? Can
we .... Who is we?....
If
I ever die, will you taste my lips if they are not there?
