The Glass

They were quarreling again, and I tried to mute it out with my loud music, the sad melody wafting into my ears. The screaming, the door slamming, the horrible silence. I hated every second of it, it reminded me of the past, and I feared for the future because no one would understand me, because no one knows what it feels like to be the torn-in-between-kid or the middle man, and even if they did they wouldn’t admit it. They would tell you “hey I’m happy, that’s a part of my past, and I’m glad that it happened because…” and the lies go on and on and on and on. If only they could tell the truth, then probably I would too.

The silence was so thick the knife went through it like a hot knife through butter, the sides curled and melted, the sliding down was so smooth, as if almost nothing was there. For one, there was no love there left after the storms and the freezing, the defrosting, the refreezing, the heat, the blast, the bomb, the destructive tornado that tore across the living room. The glass was shattered, the plate was broken, the silence hung like a heavy curtain over a window, and all could do was look outside and see the untouchable scenery, the beautiful side of life, blocked away by a thin, thin piece of glass.

If I could just break through into my dreams, if only I could shatter those fragile, thin, mocking glass. The thin layer which I thought was more like the bars of a prison cell, I only wished to be in the sun, to feel the sunlight upon my skin and not the refracted sun rays through that glass. 

Sometimes I think I break myself so I break the glass. I breakdown, I curl up, I shatter, I crack, the crevices and little lines that spider across my surface. I think maybe I tried too hard, and maybe if I break the glass I end up breaking the dream as well, the little image was nothing but an imprint in the glass, to be looked at, but once you try to reach for it, it doesn’t exist. 

It is perhaps the glass that keeps hope alive, because if there is no illusion, what meaning is there in life? I have nothing to live for, not even the mirage or the faint images I could see through the glass. The glass is there to keep me safe, keep me sane.

I see my reflection in the glass, and I realize maybe all I wanted to be was happy.

Wretches, hiccups and tumbling tears

How are people able to transform such complex, difficult moments into words? How can such simple words and alphabets represent the huge emotions? the heaving of a painful chest? a breaking heart?

You watched as my tears tumbled down time and time again, my emotions go haywire.

You watched with your large glassy eyes, your innocent, all innocence and instinct.

You shake and shiver in the cold, you gnaw and bite and scratch and squeak.

Yet you express so much more than I do.

I hide behind all those masks and those facades.

You are worth so much more than me, in soul and in all.

The inevitable “tick” comes, and I’ll be waiting in fear till the “tock” comes knocking and takes you away.

You are so much more than I’ll ever be.

 

Patchwork

Like jagged pieces of cloth, rough-edged, different shapes, snips and cutaways. We are all different, some with sharp jags and zigzags all the way, some without corners with all-round edges, some just crumpled up like they need to be ironed. How do you make a patchwork? How do you sew together these different beautiful pieces? Aren’t they all unique and special?
Don’t cut that corner! Don’t iron the frills straight! Don’t straighten the edge when it’s supposed to be curved!
Changes are imminent and shaves, cuts, bruises and burns are souvenirs and trophies that get handed along the way. We are all here to create one big patchwork, we are all here to suffer, our uniqueness ironed into flatness, until one day we are uniform, until we are the same.

The bundle of cries

How long has it been since I have last written? It has been unbearable.
To speak freely without a cause for worry or trouble.
Take me home.
I am nothing more but a bundle of cries, screams and tears.
No prose nor words will release my lost-in-thought and tightly packed, cubed, squared, diced, compressed anger and frustration.
Write it all out! Without lines to guide you!
You may scrawl, you may go under and above those accusing black lines and dots.
Think:
Out of the box

and out of time and space.
Erratic and irregular and spacious and like vine climbers and things climb to the top and reach for sunlight.