The child has grown, the dream is gone... I have become... comfortably...

And sometimes you close your eyes and see the place where you used to live

When you were young

I lost something today. It is finally and concretely gone. I just stopped meaning something to somebody. Just like how when a button is switched off. When you know the computer is in sleep mode, and then it just switches off silently, sometime in the afternoon, when the curtains are closed and there's no one in the room. Without a sound.

I know I want to be right. I am right. I don't want to have to grapple with the fact that I still mean what I used to mean to that someone, I just want to mean to them what I mean NOW, and that's that. Things have changed, and no one can suggest otherwise. I've had enough of otherwise-suggestions. It's time to say - yup. We're somewhere where we never thought we'd be, and here we are. Now the question seems to be - where do we go from here. Where indeed.

It feels so... blugh... to think how far you've come. Where you started, and where you are... How old am I now? 18? And what does that even mean? What does it mean? It's still in me to run around like as if I was three. I AM three. I am still in the first day of school, I am still a cute little thing that stumbles when it walks. I am still a thing that enjoys auto rides more than anything in the world, and cant wait for the next one. I still want to retreat into myself like a foetus sometimes, and I still want to smile with my whole self and stretch my arms out to anyone who's willing to carry me and perform funny antics to make me laugh.

It's bitter baby and it's very sweet

I'm on a rollercoaster and I'm on my feet

Insanity, it seems, has got me by my soul to squeeze

With all the dying trees, I scream

Fine. Whatever. I got everything I need. Find me somewhere. I don't know. I wanna yell maybe, but that's dumb. I guess this is the kind of feeling that inspires things like dry-sounding grunge. Drudgery. Decadence? Naw. I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm just... something, I dunno. I dunno.

I want you to notice

When I'm not around

What the hell am I doing here?

I don't belong here

Feather

I wish I could transcend into a state where my face completely clears. I want my skin to be smooth and a thin fabric stretched across what I have inside. I want to be a pixie, an angel, something that never stays in one place for more than a second, whose walk is as light and soft as velvet, something that knows no illness or bodily discomfort. I want to be emotion, I want every pore of myself to be cleared of all its clogs, and I want pure water to seep through every cell and cleanse it of all colour. I want to be a light, white translucent being, a lucid-bodied person hovering above the ground. I want my fingers to elongate and stretch out so that when I touch something, I can grip its essence and feel its surface with my palms. I want no dirt or grime or anything on me. I want my skin to have the lightest of creases when I smile, and I want the space of skin between my eyebrows and my eyelashes to be soft as cloud, so that my eyes glow when they're closed, asleep. I want to have light green-blue-gray eyes that reflect the essence of winter flower. I want to be clothed in that kind of comfortable, extremely light-colored teal cotton cloth where you can see the interweaving of threads. I want to be under the Tree on top of the hill on a cool, blurry night when everything around looks like my own souls, waiting for me, encircling me in their collective embrace, sparkling at the sight of me. I want to stand under the Tree on top of this hill and lean against the bark, perch on one of the branches, and wait. I want to wait for him that will come up behind me and hold me as his possession, as his solace and as his love. I want then for everything to stop, at that cozy moment where the night and the cold and everything else is my friend, and to simply be, so that I may love and be loved.

Falsetto

Cheryl’s lip is bleeding
Wally’s nose is a hose
I slouch in clanking,
Clawing, bawling.
They don’t see.
Mayla is sly.
Faces spin,
Swirling,
Leering.
It’s me!
It’s me!
Yelling,
Yowling,
Like a dog.
Laughter fails
As usual –startling,
Too startling; too harsh
To glimpse shards of reality.
Etiquette is all, they don’t say?
Father and mother-poles apart
Oedipus’s nemesis not a word
Blind mice must be so content
As tears make deep blue seas
Sweeping the cheeky rouge
Off his dark countenance.
Remaining a pale horse
Smoothing her muslin.
She takes no notice.
That selfish gene.