symptom zero

we walk on streets with empty lungs

sometimes we’re lonely we eat candy floss cherry yogurt

we cross the buried colours sometimes when we wait for the traffic lights somebody

is screaming behind us you’re the ones who killed the rain and we’re

sometimes lonely.

other times we hold hands that’s when the streets become narrow the sun

is hiding in my backpack near the steyr 40 sw whispering let’s blindfold him

noone will know that you shot me on thursday morning they will all look for you in the dark

no no i say sligning stars one by one let us play

see for every dead planet a little girl will mourn her mother the universe

stuck in an eyeless wrack will get my silence out of tune

and i’m

stuck in a half staccato getting stripped  of cardinal points.

(a dear someone asked me not to waste these. same person asked me not to waste myself. now, what am i doing here?)

a quick fix of melancholy.

So i lied when i said i will never bleed myself dry on paper. I’m doing it time and time again. And again.

For nothing can ever make sense. Not in my world, no way. Here is where i make the rules. Temporarily, on paper, they rule all interior comas, exclamation marks, fullstops. Momentarily, it feels good.

The rule says i shouldn’t make anything, but discover everything. Well, not everything per se, but as much as my intuition allows. I’m not a creator, and i will never be. I might be a master builder, or a circus person, considering the amount of times i stumble. Some say i’m a clown. Who am i to say they’re wrong?

When you say i don’t make sense, see that is when i am trying to discover it. I am not very quiet these days, what is in must come out, one way or another, most of the times not entirely favourable for the ones around.

My name is sara, i am 21, and i need to shout out loud. You make the sense, but i can’t grasp its meanings. That’s why inside here everything is being rebuilt; reconstructed; reinterpreted. I live in a world of words, and smiles, and grimaces, and touches that are felt 1000 times more powerful than intended. There are feather words, that float in my world’s sky for a while, touch the ground and then return to their perpetual wander.

There are soap bubble words, never meant to last. The atmosphere here kills them instantly (see, i’m a murderer, i dismiss uninteresting things with a fierce speed).

And the mountain words; their weight crushes me and all of a sudden this mind of mine stops. It is only then when i realise i am living on Planet Earth, not on some sort of poetic wonderland nobody gets what is about. And it bloody hurts. Every time i have to go out of my own self i hit my head against reality. It is mean, and cruel, and it bloody hurts.

I am still that sara, still backboneless, still stuck at the magic number 7 after all this time. I’ve created a frail self defence mechanism that is letting me down in stupid situations. It hurts and i start hurting. Selfish, i’m well aware.

But it’s either that or more of that. I live at a pace and intensity that slowly demolishes everything i’m trying to consolidate. I feel so much, and every feeling is so strong it annihilates me. It is self destruction alright, but it’s the only way i’ve learned how to be myself. Going on and off, living on slow forward and feeling on repeat.

I don;t want to be 10 years ago, i am not looking forward to the future. I am in the now, and i can only know what is going to happen 5 seconds from now. Maybe you know, i’m gonna start making some sense. Sense? Get real. Get lost, if that’s what you want.

I always get lost in order to get real.

Sometimes i get lost in the traffic of my own dreams. That hurts because it feels so real. It hurts because it is when everything falls into place, without me having to arrange it. It is so easy. Dreams are so easy. Black and white is so easy, i had to live in a world of bold colours. Thanks mum.

Sometimes i wake up and i don’t know if it’s still night or i overslept. That is when i am starting to unravel a new thread of ’sense’.

I’m always swimming against the consciousness current. Don’t try to understand. I cannot. There’s nothing there.

ambulance

hospital doors open

a great white.

I could use a serial killer for my self destruction.