Listener

I look across the room to see my dark resemblance stare back. At this point it was the only sane visual, I would have granted myself. I didn't tremble, if I did, it was the nicotine contracting my muscles, in dismay to my stillness. Some words are not meant for human ears, and some stare at you from the pages, weighing you, as if you are worthy of their judgement. Ancient fresques peering with imaginary eyes in a sancteous place. Last remainder of the souls. In all, the bed in the dirt, lined with wool, cashmere or some other material - maybe silk to embrace your cold finality, and grant it comfort - is your terminal resting designation. Death doesn't care for your achievements. Your thoughts, your prayers, a whisper. Your body a fallen leaf. All given the same respect as what you hate. Your heart is the only one thing important. Not because it deserves it. Because it's the only line, she can't cut with her blade. She waits, until the monitor in your chest gives up. Breath is only the casualty of your romance, like a bastard realising they lack the 'purity', the heir must possess.

Seconds later, I find myself staring down a reflecting beam of the morning sun. A night passed by and didn't leave a note. I'm not yet alone, based on hours of accumulated sweat, producing more microbial intruders than a baby... That's a rather weird comparison. 'Than a baby'. Sounds like staring a smear campaign - quite funny - to get them of the plane. At some point, you grow to realise digressions are what keeps your mind wrapped in a conscious turban. On rare occasion, you will notice the emptiness of your self worth and that inner dialogue telling you: 'Yes, you deserve better' or 'I should be treated better'. 'Better' is that word that makes it all seem much more approachable. Makes you more reluctant to stray off your current path; no matter its faults and ailments. Sitting alone, for long periods of time, reveals that monster, you have been trying to satisfy with scraps of your life. Now gnawing on your will and thoughts. It's the nights or days like these, which give you an incarnation of what was inside, now opposite of you. Sitting in bewildering silence. 'Come on!, SPEAK! You willed yourself into my life, now PROVE IT!'. But it just sits there and stares. It's not staring at you, or poetically in you. It's staring near you, like it was trying to not only defy you but also your existence, altogether. I think it allows your voice to be heard. Not because it doesn't know what you will say but... But because it's the listener. You know it's there but you don't allow it to be. Because the moment it believes it can live, you shall too. That is exactly why I should avoid sleepless nights. I lose my marbles. Like laying down on the bathroom floor. Just feeling the cold tiles, swallowing you up. Becoming a mosaic, slowly surrendering to the inanimate. Only specifically broken people, can achieve this state of katharsis, from seizing to exist. Purely sampling the taste of nothing on your skin, to understand how imperfect you are in that world of unfeeling objects.

Warm water, washing off the memories of now and staining you with thoughts. I crave silence but I am pretty sure I couldn't stand it. Each idea becoming louder, not to fade into the waves, just so I can later etch it onto something, which will never understand its purpose. Being a walking notebook, with all the wear and tear, scratched out words, even sentences; I must say, I feel like that. WE could make libraries out of importance alone, which we lay on our desired purpose. I don't need it so badly, to change my life for it. It might be the current comfort of rushing water, through my hair, onto my skin. Or... Ot could just be my laziness and anxiety for change. Either way, I will avoid thinking about important and slide myself to the ground, where my comfort is.

Leaving is always the hardest. As in, most problematic. Either it's wondering if you took all your trinkets, or already planning your demise at the hands of the society, and what epitaph you'd like to see on your grave. 'Guess society for once got me first' . I would use that. Escaping that wretched communal staircase - a mind of a maniac - gives you all six levels to express your hatred for stairs. Out, now lost in alleyways of people and mazes of alleys, poking your head from behind the Blue Coat, making sure that green light isn't for a freight train. A glob of souls, tied by streets, buildings and nightlights, which on a large scale shows beauty in the chaos. In the eyes of those souls, it is a carnage and anarchy of basic humanity. The slowly growing indifference, heating the crucible for hatred. Walking too fast: asshole. Walking to slow: asshole. Cutting you off: asshole. Standing too close: asshole. Looking at you for a second too long: asshole (and a creep!). You're one too. I am, definitely. As erial killer, restrained by murderous intent of social anxiety and norms. We aren't born evil. I know that by how lacking in dead bodies and unholy screams, our streets are. Sometimes you might think that you're dealing with a savage animal but no matter what your favourite politician (or party, which is even scarier) might say, we are quite 'civilised'. Kind of like pets ona leash, after a rigorous training. You want to but your owner quite simply says 'No'. The jolliest of all times to fit all the norms, for a societal cancer, come in form of these 7 days between Christmas and the New Year. Getting all the important last minute gifts - definitely thought out before - to your family, so as to provide a break to their intellectual wannabe game of: 'Political Whodunnit'. I would be gravely mistaken to say, I don't see a point in this because I do. How often do you get to see, someone voluntarily getting ideological face beaten? All in the cage of scrutiny, with audience of people they 'oh love so much'. It's entertaining, only if you're looking at it through the prism of self-hypocrisy, which I don't mind. Then, after the gifts, slurs and anger, comes the day, which brings the recycled past to the better tomorrow. As much as some say that it is a celebration of living, it is like Easter for J. Christ. Fun to get the rabbit with the chocolates but those holes of the past don't go away. Then you light the sky up, change the calendar and start your new life with a brand new headache.

'Are you real?', asks the dog its reflection. 'Woof, woof', answers the reflection profoundly. That brings the basic summary of human profoundness. A sapience so treasured, yet tricked by seeing self in things and people. You are taught of how similar we are and that it should make us respect one another. That lacks the basic constituents of: 'What about that fraction's fraction of a percent that I am different? Surely, that makes me different'. It's never about making you worse because then, it's derogatory and morally cannot be. We should have that confidence in our greatness to say: 'I ain't shit'. Simple, short, easy to memorise. Just walk up to a mirror and say that, knowing it is true. Only true way to notice your humanity without having to be painfully shown the difference one day.

Making the last effort to reach my solitude. My comfortable prison. It's sometimes much harder, than leaving it. The knowledge of passing into something you know, you feel indulged in. That knowledge scorns you from existing without it. Like passing a homeless person in the street. You feel ashamed of your comfort. You are not empathetic, instead you only notice how much you might lack in their place. Empathy grants you the comfort of knowing, you wouldn't. Of course, crossing that restraint is only a matter of time. There are no saints here - at least not the ones you imagine. Your purity is legendary if it's written of. If not, it's torture of tribulations. People trying you, without a care for your devotions. You're lucky if your loved ones notice because it's already too late for them to opt out. Oh, the sweet cry of the hinges, I can't hear through the numbing music. The smell of stale and lingering fungi, creating deeply revolting, yet calming effect. Welcome to houses of hundreds and homes of few. People say you don't miss something until you have lost it. I must have accumulated quite a collection then. Same with home. Like the steps, I have just been tapping my foot make to another. I am yet to find a place, I can settle in and stop being homeless in my home.

Another evening, some might call it a night. Asking if I had eaten, is like asking how many breaths I have taken. Like a coloniser, victorious, I forced myself out, invaded people's memories and took with me idea and concepts to which I became a suscept. Once craving attention and love, I was becoming less and less anchored to existence. In between reliance and independence, I was stuck in a limbo. A limbo which I willed myself in and out of, almost losing the tangibility of my emotions and how to even receive them. Losing marbles is one thing, playing a marble race, with your neurons, is a whole other flavour of madness. Sitting and starring into the same spot, with a cup of coffee and an unpoetic pen, to fidget with, I was drifting for the well-known experience. This time, I was alone. Loudly alone. Like the world stopped to the point at which my heart was gaining a confidence to speak. Days with shadows in my eyes have seemed like a dream. My mind, at peace. Then... It wasn't. I would have been shocked by that tranquil sermon, which has just occured but years have taken the joy and suspense out of it. Sounds came it, so did the words and sentences, longing to be said. With the brutal brush of existence my companion, became yet another streak on the wall.