If these walls

............

The light from my alarm clock is glaring at me, marking each minute i lay here about to burst at the seams of my existence. The walls are whispering of things they’ve seen and heard although it happened one night far way and long ago. Their murmuring gossip passes behind coats of paint and reminds me of little old ladies early in the morning with their coats and shawls and empty baskets over their arms waiting to be filled. The walls and these old birds choose to speak of what they’ve never dreamed of and fill the emptiness in their lives with nonsense and chatter about the choices i’ve made that fulfill my life.....

All of this is rather none of their business, but walls will be walls and continue to provoke me, making me long for a sound-proof, light-proof box to sleep in. For a minute, this box is my coffin, a bed of feathers where i am weighted down by bricks. For a minute, I am dreaming so vividly i know it can’t be real but i enjoy it so much, my dreaming self feels it must be wrong and so i create people to save me and pull me back to reality. I want to stay with the vampires in my dreams and they want me to stay with them. They invite me to a ceremony where I am pulled in by a sweet song and when my monomythical saviors think I may fall for their tricks, I strain to keep these notes within me. I am chasing my monster down street after street clogged with grass, rain, ice, snow and grass, rain, ice and snow.....

As my breathing and thoughts become heavier, so do the walls continue to breathe their thoughts to each other and ebb and flow dangerously close to my body. The pen beside my bed grows larger and larger and i want to scrawl dirty words on the walls, to call out the unmarked space, to give them something to talk about once and for all. If i mark their empty spaces as my own, perhaps they would not be walls any more, but become art or graffiti and therefore have no right to hold my darkest secrets against me. These are my stories to tell, to draw out and create. I am afraid of sleeping for fear that as soon as i doze off, my secrets will spread like wildfire amongst these walls that keep me contained so i lay awake, marking each minute of my existence with words that are bursting at the seams of this notebook.....

weekends

I remembered my past about a stroke past midnight. I was a gypsy and he was my lover. All the memories that had past had suddenly come up to remind me love does not last nor is it anything to write home about.

“Do not ask me to spend eternity with you,” she whispered with one closed eye. “otherwise else we are only going to see half of anything for the rest of our lives.”

She saw her future, muted. Silenced by jogging, running, being a drone in front of the t.v., or listening to everything… remixed. It was not original but it could never be. This is she. She saw it unfinished in her thirties, just like that one show that everyone talked about fictions so long ago but she had no idea of it would be close to reality. This is the end of the twenties. Fighting for the place on the next rung, everybody killing to the great unsung song. What is life? what is the future? Here are we and we do not want to mature.

“I want you to tie me up against a tree, to rape me, to let me know who is in control. This is my fantasy and it is breaking my soul.”

Reality is what i am afraid of. This typing and making characters out of nothing seems all that is what of life made of, but, perhaps if i make spelling mistakes, it will not come true. Who knows? Who knows that it hasn’t all been said before, that i am not knocking on the same closed door which never lets myself in? Is it because my antecessors sinned? I hope to Allah it is not, i fight for what i’ve got and to make a new future for me… without great apathy or great regrets may be the only outlet.

However, it was once said that the mountains love me, that they are calling my name: “away we go,” they cry, “here is your infinity.”

Running, walking, watching t.v. in the hum that all else calls oblivion... working, drinking, pretending my friends are my own. These are the things that keep me awake, that keep me preserving. Perhaps if i feel nothing for ever, so that nothing i can forsake.