The memories which swim inside of my brain and linger as the tub drains
through my optic nerves and into my eyes
are the most profound, evil, and touching
They're numbing because they're not meaningless,
although for most of them I cannot recall a single living thing inside the image
-- not even myself,
I'm not much for the living now,
anymore, as I've realized.
Dawning onto the idea that my solitude has a cause is equivalent to drowning;
I hate that,
fully wishing it was false,
yet I keep returning to the same conclusion
that nothing will ever change whilst in this state of mind;
that is my only truth.
So, I was leaving myself behind and watched as the old me died
trying to grasp a breath of air with its head deep under the water
-- that water I bathe myself in called reality --
and I laugh,
thinking I'm somehow ahead of my own game.
I can vividly remember the colors of the leaves during March
and how the tree trunks soared upwards
as I laid my head on a patch of soft, soft moss
and let the rest of my body perish with dirt supporting the bones.
A different image about looking up at the stars from my grandparents' deck is familiar,
a young child I once was staring at the sky
as the clouds were lavender and magenta
and the galaxy was waning itself gently across the Earth's threshold.
One more memory:
a tree that rests and withers in my backyard, where imagination never rested,
served as my kingdom;
and I its ruler could not distinguish the line between reality and fantasy,
so my life had become blended.
Eyes could never hold onto the memories which wanted to be saved,
like when he leaned on me during the night in that cold car
and fell asleep
sides and legs always touching
delicately, delicately, delicately.
Mystical memories swirl around in bits (also known as fragments)
but are unconnected beyond belief (also known as forgetfulness)
and become lost in time, making me fearful of forgetting fragments
which used to be my life
I'm mournful of what I'm missing and constantly am torn piece by piece
until each piece feels alone, until I am only a small piece as well,
but it doesn't matter because I wouldn't remember anything important anyways;
especially if it is important
-- importance is unbound --
I'm left behind unconsciously and bare
under my own doing, once again,
but this time unknowing.
And now all I want to do is sit and cry or complain or sing or talk to myself
without my knees shaking as much as they do
and hands clasped at my caged heart
just to pray to anything that might be above me
But noise does not exist here any more than a god might;
and for me, of course not
because there's no room for someone else to abandon you
if you abandon yourself first.