Lost

[So I found another old thing]


Lost.
Trudging,
down this infinite path
pain and sorrow
Walking,
no passion
no emotion
yesterday
today
tomorrow

Lost.
This whirlpool of
thoughts and feelings
so very overwhelmed,
you've become numb
Stripped of what you are
Peeling,
off my thin coat of armor

Naked,
vulnerable,
you continue wandering,

Lost.

1:32 AM

And that's what it's doing to you. You're getting so used to clearing a mental to-do list, like getting used to an old pair of worn out canvas shoes, that you're even starting to develop a twisted sort of affection for it. It's become an irremovable part of your life, almost like you're addicted, addicted to goddamned work, to a goddamned routine. It's become a weird sort of salvation, stress has become nothing but a massage, relaxing. Idleness, it makes you uncomfortable, unable to just sit quietly, letting the hands on the clock do its rounds, 

tick,

and tock, 

and tick,

and tock,

letting the sands of time slip by, no longer content with, no unable to watch the gradual change of everything with patient yet intense eyes. And you move the tips of your toes, tap, tap, tap. Your eyes, staring at a fixed point, frowning. Your arms, crossed. Muscles tensed, like a stretched spring. 

Broken.

-

A jack in the box. A painted smile. Empty eyes. Bobbing up, and down, and up, and down. It seems to be mocking you, with that silent laughter, not saying anything, but as such, saying everything. And its presence, it seems to be getting more and more pronounced, more and more oppressive. And your heart is pounding, beating a steady rhythm, dum, dum dum. And you try to make sense of it all, but all that you could see are those sadistic, treacherous, bright red lips. 

And your eyes focus, your brain snaps out of its state of helpless lethargy, and the jack in the box continues its bobbing motion, but this time, that's all there is to it. 

So I found this old...thing I wrote some time ago (April, last year?)

A soft entrance of pianissimo notes marks the beginning of the piece. Calm and peaceful, but at the same time mysterious and invokes much curiosity. You open your eyes, and your gaze seems to penetrate the roof. Although you see, you do not remember. You register not the streak of grey dust clinging to the ceiling fan, the incessant buzzing of the mosquito, nor do you make anything of the sounding alarm, for you cannot hear, or rather comprehend what you are hearing. For it makes no sense to you, you hear not. You see, but you do not see. You stumble in this state of half-awareness and you cannot move your limbs. For you do not know you have limbs. You do not acknowledge the existence of them, as you are not thinking, nor are you attempting to. The delicate movement of clean sixteen notes decorates and accompanies the low chord. Your field of vision, the images you see, they seem to be getting sharper, more defined, the soft blurry edges morphed into angry straight lines. You are confused, and your seemingly dormant brain starts to work. The sixteen notes crescendo-ed to a forte-fortissimo, then with a loud clash of the cymbal, everything elapses into an abrupt silence. There is nothing left. 

Trap.

Anger, frustration, despair. Nothing but useless emotions, adding to the frowns upon your face, to a never ending fury, and disappointment. Feelings, what are feelings. What does it mean to feel deeply about something? It means trudging too deeply into a whirlpool of emotions, it means committing, no, chaining yourself to mindless triflings.
And so the key, it's to not care, it's to not be surprised, it's to go along with the flow. Like they all do. Like they all give up, succumbing to the appealing idea of trapping oneself in such armor.

.

One moment the fireworks are illuminating the night sky with their sparkling brilliance, the next moment it's dead silence, encompassing your entire being so rapidly as if it's jealous of that happiness you felt for a mere fraction of a second. You're at the edge of the surface, the crown of you head touching that space separating the liberating air from the suffocating water, at the threshold of clarity but not quite breaking free. Struggling. You're struggling so hard to see, you blink, once, twice, but to no avail, your eyes refusing to give you a clear image of what's beyond the water, rather like an old digital camera out of focus, like a photograph of bokeh effect. It's just a game, this moment, not amounting to even a chapter in this treacherous game.

(More ramblings transcribed from a notebook)

Cocoon.

Distance. The other side of the world, at an unreachable distance.

It's almost as if you're wrapped up in a cocoon, a seperate entity from the universe. Like you're viewing the rest through a layer of frosted glass, seeing, but only vaguely, hearing, but not really. And through this frosted glass, the happenings of the world, seem not as important, the magnitude of dire situations seem to lighten. And you see that nothing really matters anymore, nothing had ever really mattered much before.