The heart sheds tears the mind can't fathom

Ramming headache,
Empty bottles.

Empty heart

Going through all the motions and yet nothing is quite aligned. The stars don't shine and the birds don't sing. Of all the blurry faces that passed by, none inspires me.

Riding a twisted emotional roller coaster of my own making.

Perhaps you make your own suffering because it's a safe zone. No one can hurt you if you hurt yourself first.

Poisonous thoughts

Inadequate–– always inadequate
Gently suffocating under the bitter, sweltering
heat of your own self-effacing making

Struggling to struggle
against the vicious cycle
like the unconvincing, half-hearted
and broken wings of a fly trapped in tree sap

Within the viscous amber liquid,
beating,
beating still––

The insincere grace of courtesy
rather than purity of determination

Lilac-tinted visions of pasts, and the futures that could-have-been.

You remember them in moments, animated vignettes captured for eternity.

The heart sheds tears the mind cannot comprehend

And still you can't tell them––

"I miss you"

Bouts of sentimentality that hold nothing but heart-wrenching emptiness. 

I wish my heart would ache

Perhaps it's for times like this that the beautiful little things exist. Laugh a little more, live a little more, until that laughter becomes real, dust of color that eventually form something substantial.

When you lose something you've once truly treasured, something which no longer means anything to you, it leaves a gaping hole, snatches something from your soul, even if losing it was a conscious choice you made. You are the void, a burst of cold air seeking to feel something in the warmth of a human touch, a kiss, an embrace, shadowy forms that crosses yours. Smile because you can't feel anything, cover up the emptiness of your eyes, your phantom heart.

Dusk

Pink tendrils of silky color seeped into the sky at dusk, silently spreading and altering the gentle hues of pastel blue, almost touching the tips of the soft clouds sifting by. The setting of dusk is in perfect harmony with the rhythm of time, a flawless transition in temperament, a measured sounding of honey-warm chords played on harps. It is in such moments of sublime configuration –– no rough edges that needs to be rounded out, no dissymmetry that needs to be justified –– that the ultimate presence of continuity reigns. Not a mechanical progression in the stages of daily existence, but a natural lengthening of pages in an incomplete story, an unfinished musical phrase. Time is distorted in the larger schemes of things, so greatly spread that the most imperceptible milliseconds of events are just as substantial as leaps in centuries. It then becomes two simultaneously existing lines of possibility and reality. One is the other, and the other is one.

Empty Shells

In the silence of the night, the uneven chugging of trains quietly interjecting, you touch your fingers to the sky. Your thoughts speak only in grayscale, whispering, to blend into the picture of heavy tranquility. For even thoughts are much too loud. So you drown it all, place an unyielding hand on their struggling voices, take away their consciousness. It's better this way, always better this way. Better to feel and not think. Emotions without thought, without form.

Day in the Life of A Street Cat

Warm. Humid.

The prowling street cat never sleeps. Always awake, always watching. The sharp piercing eyes judging the quality of your soul, lends it an air of regality despite its coarse, dull appearance.

It moves–she moves–with dignity and grace, as if living in the cold darkness of the outside world was not an outcome imposed by the cold hand of fate, but a proud display of independence and disregard for droll, earthly concerns.

A fine coat of soft grey hair, eyes the cold of the night, it is a creature that seems more human that humanity itself. It knows what it wants, and nothing will stop its way; a little nuzzling against a passing foot, not begging, but a business-cat striking a deal.