Surrounded

2.28.09

I'm breathing heavier now, now that time has taken a little more of my dignity. I'm talking slower now, now that I've learned to think. I think I've learned to think about many things never taught to me--things that just happened. Like the thunder-- or the experience, THE experience. I remember, when me and you would sing. I was in love-- with you of all people. Undeserving at best, undeserving of your intense beauty, undeserving of my confusion. I, deep in the binge, blue in the face, staring at the canaries in the white cage. The rain would echo our voices after it all, out on the empty street, hand in hand in the remnants of the hot, moist air with hazy sky blowing east over the damp buildings. The whole time the world calling themselves 'awake'. I was in slow-mo, surrounded by reality, a place I still know little of. The closest I got to truth was holding your hand, thinking about your dreams. The world was at the mercy of their monotonous alarm, chained to a machine, all decisions an illusion. With you, I first realized this. I had never been so happy or so alive. I then knew I could never play the game, I knew I could never go back. Back to the empty room, back to the empty street to look for your eyes. The density that you brought to me was suffocating and I wanted to die-- in a good way, not that death could be good or bad, it just is. I just am, I just wanted to run the numbers one more time in my laboratory that you hated, I just wanted to make sure I wasn't completely dreaming. Then you'd walk out from me in the restaurant, only the best ones. I would sit as the world went in fast forward, everything moving erratically, watching the sun arc across the sky in seconds. Over and over again, the haze of thoughts encompassed my existence leading my mind to devoid worlds far away, so many blank pages and sentimental alleyways with cold comforts. I'd walk through the park, the moon arcing across the sky, thoughts racing, people running, looking at my speeding feet. Then I would wake up and call out your name the next morning, living in hell-- not believing in heaven anymore. The past is screaming away, becoming fainter, your face is seered in my existence. I'm branded with your marks, poisoned by your breath, still unable to put the experience of the passion into coherent sentences. I'm running out of time, out here with the lights in my hands. I am a child. I am a child.