Train Travel (4)

Sometimes, my work requires me to ruin people's perfectly good writing. "Sentence fragment," says the automatic grammar checker. Yeah, so what? It's a beautiful fragment. Not everything in this life is whole. Very few things are, actually. All we see are icebergs, facets, never what's underneath, never from all sides. I try. I overthink. Overthinking is treated like a bad thing. They might make a disorder out of it soon. Underthinking is fine. Don't google that. You may discover it's plagiarized. I think I've read it someplace, but I can't remember where.
There are no more original ideas. Everything has already been said.
I am but a piece of myself by myself.

... to the end of the world ...

Train Travel (3)

"She's tried on everything, every little thing inside her closet." This one must be about me.
The man comes back, I move my feet, he sits down.
The girl in front of me has put her head in her boyfriend's lap. She doesn't know how lucky she is.
People don't usually realize how lucky they are and what they have until they lose it. Didn't you do the same?
Lost in self-analysis. Did I ever do that? Not enjoy, not take advantage of what I had? Doesn't sound like me, but I may be too kind to myself at this late hour. I don't have such regrets.
I should sleep. The adrenaline has worn off, but the light is too bright, and words are pouring on the page.

Train Travel (2)

Close to midnight. I should sleep. I am tired, but the chair is quite uncomfortable.
"If I ever lose myself...." I always lose myself with you. I miss that. I miss the butterflies, the loss for words.
Chemistry, you say. Sure, if you want. It's all about serotonin, dopamine, and oxytocin. If you want to belittle it.
I won't. While chemistry explains what happens, it can't explain why. Why with you? Why me? I still call it magic. If you think about it, hundreds of millions are looking to find it, to feel it, and some never do their entire lives. So isn't it magic that I've found it with you? The fact that you feel the same is simply close to a miracle. Two among seven billion. What are the chances?

Train Travel (1)

Headphones in my ears. The radio lost signal. White noise. At least no one bothers me. The man next to me gets up, gets out, comes back in, sits down. I have to move my feet to make room for him each time.
A fraction of a song. "We both know we ain't kids no more...." All the songs are about you. White noise.
He gets up again, kicks my foot and looks down at it as if at a weird wild animal that jumped at him. He doesn't look up at me. Doesn't apologize. My foot is a separate entity.
The kid behind me says the boogieman took his teeth. I hate kids. No, I don't hate them. I just don't like them. That's not the truth either, but my feelings concerning children are too complicated to be explained or understood by anyone.
Comes back, sits down. I stretch my feet again.
All these people going nowhere.

Caged

Ți-ai construit o colivie cu zăbrele aurite.
Când a început să ruginească pe la încheieturi ai dat, încrezător, cu un strat de vopsea.
Când au pălit nuanțele și a ieșit la iveală metalul ordinar din care e făcută, ai închis ochii ca să nu vezi cât de tare semăna cu o închisoare idealul la care te întorceai seara acasă.
Între timp, te-ai obișnuit cu peisajul întretăiat de gratii și ai încercat să uiți că se mai poate și altfel.
Acum degeaba scuturi zăbrelele. Nu te aude nimeni, nu te vede nimeni.
Cheia e la tine.
Colivia ... e doar în mintea ta.
Photo by LadyLaReina

Over?

A trecut și vara asta, poate mai trist decât alte veri, și nu îmi face nicio plăcere să zic Ți-am spus eu! când presimțirea nu era una ce aș fi vrut s-o văd împlinită.

Îmi voi asculta instinctele, ți-am spus, dar ce să fac atunci când instinctul îmi șoptește de mult că s-a sfârșit, iar tu nu pari să înțelegi?
Ce e mai grav e că nici sufletul meu nu înțelege și pare să găsească plăcere în a mă sfâșia...

Vor rămâne doar fâșii din mine și nu știu dacă vor exista îmbrățisări de-ajuns ca să mă lipească la loc.

I know there was something before you. I just can't remember what it was.  (Iain Thomas)

Exorcism

Scrisul e o formă de exorcizare. Dau nume monștrilor care colcăie în mine și îi scot la lumină, îi oblig să stea cu ochii în soare.