A Bubble Floating Through Emptiness


To reality hop.
Can I hop through different realities, please?
I really don’t want to be here.

Be in an anime, or a movie, a fantasy world. To come and go and leave and as you please.
Put me under, into the dream world, go down the rabbit hole, escape.

When I think about you, the world flips inside out and nothing makes sense. I want to run away.
In to psychedelic colours, grunge textures and linkin park songs. I lose touch with reality– this can’t be real, what is real? This is not my reality, I reject it. I don’t want to be here.

There must be somewhere else I can go. How can this be all there is? How can this be my life? It’s not mine, I reject it. I want to go back to there– that felt real, that’s where I want to be. No, that’s where I am. Who closed the door, the door to narnia, to nivarna, to bliss, to home? Why am I stuck in this place, in this shell, in this meaninglessness, in this emptiness?

I feel no attachment to this world, this realm, this reality– it’s not reality. No attachment, no bond, no relation, no investment. It’s not so much that I don’t want to be here as how much I want to be somewhere else– I’m lost. There’s a taste of reality, a taste of home– no, Home– a taste of heaven, I remember. I’ve been there before. Why did it go, where did it go? Who stole my keys and shut me out, threw me out?

How do I get back to reality?
How do I get back home?

Must I stay here, in this prison without walls, bidding my time, and waiting, hoping hopelessly that one day I will escape, one day I will be home again, and reality will be real?

Which is the reality? Is the reality I crave but a dream, a drug, an escapist’s delusion? Am I binded and intoxicated by a dreamy haze? How can things be so contrary– why does my definition of reality differ from yours, is reality relative?

Seeing you, meeting you turns my world (what world?) topsy turvey.

I don’t understand that, but I don’t understand anything.

I am a bubble, floating through emptiness, waiting desperately to

pop.

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Two one-way streets


To know and be known
To forgive and be forgiven
To love and be loved

When music is played but not heard
When music is heard but not played
Music (and colour, and sound and more) are mere perceptions;
They take place only in your head?
When a tree falls but no one is around
You know that one.

Can you forgive, if none wants to be forgiven?
Can you love, if none receives your love?
Can you be forgiven, if no one forgives?
Can you be loved, if no one loves?

What if; lost in translation? miscommunication? lack of a medium?
One loves but the disgruntled husband does not feel it.
A love-struck teenager interprets love when no such love exists.

Three parts to every communication: the source (the production), the transmission (the medium) and the recipient (the perceiver). What’s one without the others? Sufficient but not necessary? Necessary but not sufficient  Two out of three?

Blogging can be like shouting into an abyss. Sometimes you pretend there’s a receiver, and that’s enough to satisfy. Other times you yearn for a connection that’s more real…

We think of many things as two way streets.
It takes two hands to clap, we take turns to give and receive and we meet each other half way.
In truth perhaps they are merely two one way streets
With an illusion of connection.

We are necessarily alone in our own heads. Nothing we know or can know that doesn’t pass through the murky filter of perception and our limited understanding.

Consensus. We agree that they meet, so we can act like they meet, and for all purposes they do. Until your perspective changes (and all the misunderstandings crawl out of the woodwork) and you realize it was an illusion all along.

Previous posts where similar ideas were explored that possibly led to this post:
Forgiveness
Sending and Receiving the Message of Love

Sits like a stone


It sits like a stone.

like a habit you just can’t break.
like a place you automatically head for
even though it’s now gone empty and cold
and the comfort it used to give
now just a memory.

you turn it over and over and over
running your fingers over the contours
tracing the faint lines and crevices
trying to uncover something new, something you missed.

It sits like a stone.
in my mind.

Waiting Dreaming Hoping Loving


Waiting, waiting
Ever waiting
Waiting till the ends of time

Waiting, waiting
Calmly waiting
For the day you’ll again be mine

Dreaming, dreaming
Nightly dreaming
Of you, with you in normal life

Dreaming, dreaming
Shattered dreamings
Of you, with you as my wife

Hoping, Hoping
Ever hoping
Rightly so, this hope is frail

Hoping, hoping
Futile hoping
Yet it remains so hard to kill

Loving, loving
Unconditional loving
Once in my heart forever there it’ll lie

Loving, loving
Silently yearning
Just like hope, love never dies.

Not.


Reality seeps
through my fingers.
I am
not.

One foot, then another
moving but going nowhere.
Unseeing eyes
unsmiling smiles.
Pumping blood
without a heartbeat.

They’ve turned from
a misplaced reality
into fading memories
ashen grey and almost-but-can’t
forgotten

Reality was taken
but was not replaced.
I am
not.

Demon II


Dear demon,
I know you inside and out;
you don’t scare me. (Much).

Dear demon,
I can’t block out your whispers.
They swirl and lodge in my brain.
But I can ignore them as best I can–
Delegate them to background noise.

Background noises may eat at your soul
Slowly eroding away your sanity.
But at least they can’t reach controls
And I live to see another day.
(Although you tell me I don’t want to
and I half believe you.)

Background noises “disappear” as you acclimatize to them
Even though they’re always there, plaguing your subconscious.
“The secret is, I’m always angry.”
You could hope they’d fade for real, in time
But… how can you tell?

Dear demon,
I know you through and through;
you don’t scare me.
You are me.

You’re not external made internal
I’m not ‘demon-possessed’
(People who think otherwise–
out sourcing your ‘bad’ to demons and your ‘good’ to angels–
who are you then?)

You’re internal
made detached.
Filtered out and quarantined
Leaving just the sane for the world to see.

We all have demons
The only demons we ever need to battle
are ourselves.

Demon I


Everyday
A demon whispers in my ear.

you don’t want to live
he breathes
you don’t want to be here
you don’t want this, any of this

imagine the blade
across your skin
silently slice, slice, slice
again, again.
hypnotizing comfort.

imagine the height
imagine the flight
what a rush!
of adrenaline and wind

Along the streets and roads
come and crash us down, come on.
Around the corners
sudden headlights and screech of brakes, come on.

what else does he say to me?
no one cares.
what else does he say?
you’re as alone as can be.
its echo-y in my head

((no one cares))(caress)(caresss))
((you’re alone))(alone)(lone..))

you don’t want to live
he coos
your life, so dead. empty. meaningless.
there’s nothing here. 

Everyday
A demon whispers in my ear.

Battling Demons (That feeling)


that feeling
on the edge
almost coming

fighting, fighting
fighting the demons (of self)
fighting the darkness
fighting back tears.

sharp smells
bright lights
memory is like smell and taste
can’t quite pin it down
describing never does it justice
but it’s so strong, so poignant.

fighting back thoughts.

that feeling:
all consuming
an emotion morphed
and spilling over
into sensation

that feeling
suffocating, all around
pressing in, closing in
can’t
breath

that feeling
like it’s
not worth moving
not worth opening
your eyes
not worth breathing
not worth living

that feeling
so unbearable
that a mental scramble
for remedies
leaves you thinking
only this:

chop off my head
just wanna chop off my head
surely that would make me feel better
make the thinking
and the memories
and the almost-crying
and the want-to-dying
stop

or just dig a hole in my chest
both sound good
sounds like comfort.
whichever’s faster, easier
quick, do it, quick!

fortunately
perhaps surviving confers immunity
perhaps having gone through it once
it’s lost some power
lost some effect
you get numb, maybe.
you get bored, maybe.
you think, i’ve seen this before.
I can get out.

fortunately
it’s much less
all consuming now
it’s much less.

fortunately
i feel it coming
but just hovering at the edge
and i battle not to let it in.

i’m never.
going back there.

demons, away!
be gone.

leave me in peace.

Keeping yourself company


The sound of silence;
all there is.
I’m sick of my own company.

The sound of silence
is deafening.
Thoughts and words banging,
bouncing soundlessly
around my skull.
No outlet, no listening ear
to borrow for a while.

Blast the wall of sound.
Pretend it makes you feel better
and maybe it will.

Everything sounds better in a foreign language/
Everything sounds better sung– or screamed.
Everything sounds better with some rhythm.

Distractions, keep yourself distracted.
Keep yourself occupied. With distractions
Just keep moving.
Don’t stop, or you might sink.

That can’t be all there is.
That can’t be it.
Slay me.

Enough.
The silence is deafening.
It starts ringing, after a while.

My words bounce around in my skull.
I’m sick of my own company.

Maybe the secret to happiness
is being able to enjoy one’s own company.