I'm writing this like an amanuensis but empty-headed, and my feet cold from the mosaic that looks like a mediocre renaissance painting.
I woke up at midnight, staring at the empty fishbowl and an expired juice box behind it. As I pass through each strobing street light and as my shadow gradually grows, I wonder, were those poems worth writing? Even though they ended up in an archive drawer.
An archive drawer full of pilled-up fragmented dreams. And as my shadow shrinks, I realize I'm as forgettable as some tragedy that happened somewhere in the late 2000s.
It's not how I embrace them; it's just my ability to push people further and further away until they become a singularity and a long-lost memory that I no longer reminisce. So, what is all this baloney?
I helped you gather things, led you to the gate, and you went away and informed you had no reason left to remain here.
I no longer wake up listening to jazz; rather it's the cacophony of my heart. I'm content, perhaps, but what's there to look forward to? Is that all there is? Just flipping the pillow over and over just to feel the cool side of it and a single strand of your hair appearing in my dreams just to turn into a nightmare.
Your carbon monoxide-filtered room and your rigid thoughts made it all clear.
How I look back til I slowly entropy into a pile of mush. How watching two people embracing each other on TV shakes my heart. And how I always wanted to open the deep recesses of my heart and articulate my words but never did,
cause I always had an epiphany of a scene from Tarkovsky's film where he said, "Words are flaccid." How I'm stuck in this never ending anguish. How everything goes 360°, and lands back at my feet like Saṃsāra cycle. This is enough; perhaps it's that time of the year again when I start to become shell of a person and discover another keepsake.
