I see the corner you walk around every single day, the one you would roam without any knowledge of where you were headed or when you would get there. You would just go, unquestioningly. The cries, muffled screams do not seem to deter you, you only hear singing, the noise is muted. What are you thinking? The same as me? The same as the next?
You change from day to day, why do you change? I sometimes watch your face as I see it pains you to life one heavy foot after the other, you nevertheless do it with ease, but I know you don't want to. Often I lie her, not wanting to move, but I always do. I feel myself tremble, shudder when I think about what it means. I never fail to get up, if I did there would be no other option than death, no reason to rise, no point in life, waiting to die. At the moment through every lethargic day I ultimately feel I am waiting to live, waiting for the part of me that feels dead inside to be resuscitated, resurrected, brought back from stone, with its sharp edges ready to pierce anyone or anything who dare overstep the mark. The mark? What that? Who knows, the mark you pass that would smoothen the edges, blunt them into subjectivity, break down the barrier.
(here I am once again, writing away my fears, fears which first appear like this grey carpet littered with rubbish, beneath which the creaking floorboards laugh, junk which I even seem to care about when it accumulates)
My eyes feel so dry, contained, yet my arms feel such impulse and anger, my mind needs to prioritise.
The path turns into a long narrow street. Trees with branches full of emerald green leaves cover, like the roof f a marquee, smothers you with darkness away from the deep blue mix of the sky, but not enough to keep out the rain, the bombardment the world has to offer. You however are prepared, sheltered through this onslaught, whilst I, walking along the opposite side fear, unknowing what to be prepared for. We are alone in our preconceptions, but I am ignorant.
That's how I see you, protected, wrapped in cotton wool forever, whereas I, walking on the other side am cotton wool itself. Weak and fragile, hit by all weathers, soaking up everything from which you are shielded. And its not just you I see, its your whole little army of believers offering more protection. I walk alone. Trapped. My road never ends, it widens separating the two parallels by an even bigger leap. You never venture to the other side, I see you sometimes attempting to jump, on the verge of crossing, but the force field of cotton knows, and you are prevented. Would it accept me? Would I be pushed back to this lonely grey side? I do not wear grey.
I am out of breath trying, I slow down, see you walking out of sight. I will just have to wait for the next. Rescue me, this sopping great sponge of pain, or keep your eyes to your side , just like all the rest. I do not cry.