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April 12, 2006
What remains
You know it's boiling in you, it moves within all of you, every inch, every little parcels of your skin, inside your vaines, as the carousel of blood moves on , it swooshes inside you and stabs you in every corner, in every part of you. You sit , stone faced, wondering where the words have gone, how is that the thoughts carry over in your mind but the miss the connection and the voice box does not sing, no movements there , all silent, the words do not come, but you know they are boiling in you.
The images are registered the scents are breathed inside, the senses are on fire, the heart beats, the blood leaps in bounds and whooshes, the eyes see, the voices are heard the thoughts are shaped and the words are chosen but, the distance between you and uttering any words have become so far, very far. you are lit, but the words do not come and the silence covers you like death in black patches of blinding indifferences, you are muted and you need so much to say something...............
I am dangerous without my words, my movements are labored, and the anguish that fills my head like a tropical depression that sits within the air, covering the sky with black clouds that move silently in their elements of angst and longings........ I empty al the closets and throw all my belongings out the window, I wash myself over and over taking long showers, and I wash again. its the sin , the guilt, the boredom and this heavy burden of living an accidental life. I check my license, and compare the picture to the face in the mirror, yes this is where I live, who I am and no other alternatives, and that finality , of no other alternative, this long sentence , this cumbersome everydayness of my days, my aging face, and all the memories of our days in the sun, where we frolicked close to a love in hand, to belonging and to tender mercies of the ones who loved us, and yet, what remains..............
No, no its not Kafka, it's not bleak, or black, but it sits on you like the dull weight of a Sunday afternoon. the black stands, but the grays will hunt you, they stay and define you, the boredom of their hues, the idleness, the impotent ways of their days, fruitless, empty, like a cold cavern that leads to nowhere, and it only echoes the sounds of the distances. I feed me colors in sweet hues and liquidize me within the emergence of the colors within my skin, and learn the cheerful intention I expected are poisonous to human dignity.
They do not know, I tell myself, they will not understand, they do not see, they cant, I repeat again, but why all the effort, I don't know, I guess we do what we can with what remains.
Posted by Idinraha at April 12, 2006 05:02 PM