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Ravings From the Madhouse

by l blickensderfer 2 months ago in therapy
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July 2022

Ravings From the Madhouse
Photo by Nsey Benajah on Unsplash

Day One

I feel empty, like there are no words left, like they don't belong to me anymore. And everything is long, my nails, my hair, but what is the significance of that?

I think maybe I don't want to walk out of here, but I don't want to stay, like I don't want to be here, but I don't think I want to be anywhere. I am looking for a place to be nothing at all, and maybe that's death, but I've always been okay with that. I find I don't fear death like they all say you should, and maybe that's because life has always seemed to me like a state of existence that is maddening in its futility, because I don't see the point, because it will always end and maybe there is nothing waiting for us. I don't know if I want there to be, because I think there will be no point in that either.

And it will always end. It will always end, and I could

stray

from the lines

I could skip them entirely.

But it won't matter, because there is nothing in this world that truly does. There is nobody to tell me where to go, nobody to tell me what to do, no guide in a lightless world.

So where do we go from here?

When the world doesn't matter, when the light has faded and death itself means nothing to you; when the afterlife is a fraud and the universe won't stop even when you so desperately want it to.

When I'm lying in bed trying not to think, trying not to be.

Where do we go when there is nothing to hold you back, when the only confines between you and the world and happiness and the meaning of life is the way I can't seem to be real like they all want me to be?

But I don't want to be real with the world, I don't want to watch the sun rise and I don't want to reminisce about how a new day brings with it new opportunities, because the end will always come and one day there will be no new sunrises, one day there will be no new opportunities.

And I dream about running my fingertips over the mountain peaks, about feeling the world in my hands and I think maybe there is nothing stopping me from climbing to the highest peaks of the world and letting myself fall, letting the mountains take me back, letting the valleys fall from cliffs in their swathes of color and life.

But what is the world? What is color and life when there is nothing stopping everything from falling apart?

And my mind is a pitfall, an endless question that won't stray, relentless in its persistence, gory and bloodless, deeply stained and crisp with clean.

It is a little trap, an endless maze and sometimes I can't get out of bed in the morning, sometimes my thoughts are racing and sometime I can bear to race with them, but when they turn on me, when they win, the chasm opens wider and I think that maybe if i let it, it could swallow me whole, drown me in a darkness where water would feel like a mercy.

Where the thickness of the dark, the endless sludge of the unwanted, of the way it feels to be unable to move, unable to call for the help I don't know if I really want.

Because the dark, the muddy unmoveable dark holds me in a standstill and it always leads me back to a place where I can't decide whether I want to water the mud down with joy that doesn't exist, or let it take me to a place where I don't have to exist, a place where being is optional and thinking is prohibited.

And I feel like I crave the optionality of existence, the idea that thought, that being trapped in it, that being stuck in your head could be a choice where I can watch the world fall apart and rejoice in the chaos, rejoice in the ending and the way it might feel to be free of the endless burden of existence. No thoughts, no emotions, no thinking about how everything falls apart or how the words on this page mean nothing, so what is the point in writing them?

I have no answers and I think the words spill out of their own accord. I couldn't stop them, I can't control them in the way everyone seems to think I can.

They are wild and restless and free and maybe words are the best thing we can do. It's the expression, it's the way they arrange themselves on the page, how a notebook looks so much better when it is full, when you can feel the imprints of humanity on its pages.

But I don't want to talk about joy because I can't find it. I don't want to talk about how thoughts on the page are distant from me, how I don't know if I feel them or if I am them, how maybe we're not just made of water, but of an alphabet that is chaotic in its simplicity.

And sometimes I can't get out of bed in the morning, sometimes it feels like everything has built up and maybe if I were to die right here, right now everything would make sense again.

And sometimes I can't get out of bed in the morning, sometimes I don't want to feel; I don't want the world to think about me, because I think that maybe I am falling apart.

It feels like I am running out of words, like my allotment has dried out.

I sometimes think about what would happen if the water of all the oceans drained away, if the sea emptied itself and we could venture to the very bottoms of the world. I think about the things we might find in the hollows of the empty seas.

The depths of the ocean scare me, I think, but sometimes I want to walk into the water and not stop, to feel the sand at my feet, to feel the echoey silence and see the wonder of blues until my head explodes from the pressure.

I think the emptiness of watered places is a dream to me. I want to be one with the depths, to sink into the way it would feel to be so disconnected, so out of touch and lost from everything that seems to matter to the world.

But I don't know if it matters to me, if money, if love, if hope and faith in the world is worth believing in.

And I've had these words stored in my head, not in a memory, not in the way the world seems to remember things,but in a way that words seem to stick with you.

I am too late for tragic.

I am too late for tragic.

I am too late for tragic.

I am too late for so much, because I have been held hostage by my own thoughts and they keep coming back, haunting me like a little ghost in the house of my own mind.

But I don't know what I'm saying anymore. I feel as if the words have left me, like their beauty is lost to the moments I spend away from them.

And I mourn the lost words, I mourn their sound and their flow and their rhythm, and I want them back like a lost lover, like the way I would give anything for them to come back to me, to give me a second chance that I don't deserve.

But it seems that they are long ago, long ago lost to the very void of thought and unwanted thinking and the endless quest to be nothing at all.

I don't know how I feel anymore.

I don't know if what I want is to leave this place forever, to lose myself to eternity so that I never have to be again

And joy is a mystery to me, I sometimes don't know whether it is real or not, whether happiness is worth it, whether the pursuit, the journey to what everyone seems to crave and strive for is worth the way it feels to want the world to leave you alone, to want nothing to do with joy, nothing to do with happiness and it's endless running away from me, it's endless pursuit to discover whether I will chase it like they all do, or if I will let it do it's running, if I will watch joy from a distance and wonder if that chase is worth the pain in my legs as I run after it or if it is worth the way my breath will shudder, worth the panting and the heartache and the way it feels to be unable to go on.

I couldn't dream of moving on, I can't sit back and watch the world move on. I am buried in the relentlessness of time, in the way nothing matters, in the way I could have loved if nothing had gone wrong. In the what-ifs of the world and the endless cycle of how sometimes I can't get out of bed in the morning, how I want to sit in nothing and think of nothing and be nothing.

Because what is there to think of if nothing matters?

I am lost for words.

I am broken inside.

I am coming apart at the seams.

And I can't stop thinking or being, and I can't stop breaking or shattering.

And I think that something fundamental went wrong in my head, and I don't know how to fix it, or if it can be fixed in the first place.

So what do you do with a broken mind? What do you do with misery when the world seems joyful, what do you do with pain when the world doesn't seem to feel it?

And I think of these words like a trophy, like there is something to be found in them, in their candor and their rhythm and the way the world might find something in them. But they are broken, they are useless and I can't seem to stop them, can't seem to put a plug in their flow or wash them away with the waters of a mind's meager tide.

I have lost touch with them but they are relentlessly me, relentlessly hollow with broken pieces stitched back together in a shallow imitation of something once beautiful.

And I don't want to talk about it I don't want to think about it, because it is so full of broken pieces of me, of the dreams I once carried in a pocket on the inside of my heart.

They are shattered now, shattered little pieces strewn across the years like Xs on a calendar.

And half of the things I say don't seem to make any sense, but I can't fix them, I can't make sense of them because I think maybe they are senseless. Lost in a feeling that is beyond words, a feeling that cannot help but be felt in the worst sort of way.

Day Two

Is this how the rest of the world feels?

Like maybe there is nothing standing in your way?

Like maybe I could get out of bed in the morning? Like maybe I could look forward to it?

But somehow I don't want to be happy.

Somehow I don't want to cherish a new day like it is something worth cherishing.

Give me the misery, I said, because I think the world is a little bit more evil than not, and how am I supposed to combat evil with good when I am still chasing the good for myself? When the lines are so blurred, when I can't seem to decide whether I am more scared of living or of dying?

It's living. It's always been living. I never thought I would get this far and the future, the idea of living the future feels like a chore in itself and sometimes I don't think I can handle going on in a world that is relentless and bound to fall apart, with or without me.

And I have to remind myself that the void will always return, because sometimes I feel like my brokenness has mended itself and that there is nothing that could shatter it ever again

But the void will return and the void will return and the void will return and the void will return.

And I have to remind myself today, because it feels like nothing could go wrong, like maybe I could take on the world and win, like maybe I could beat the evil with my good and drive the misery away with my joy.

But I don't think I know what joy feels like, maybe I will never know. But how can you defeat misery with joy if there is no joy to join the fight?

But I don't find the idea of a life without joy unbearable, because if you've never experienced something, how can you miss it?

And it's all about the world. The world and its joy, the world and its misery, the world and its good, the world and its evil.

The evil of death, the evil of corruption.

But sometimes I don't think Death is so evil, sometimes I dance with it on a pallid rooftop and step on it's toes and fumble the steps, but Death doesn't chastise, Death doesn't compare my fumbling with it's easy grace, with the way it could never miss a step, the way it moves like mist and dances like rain, coming down in torrents, cleansing the world of decay and the way it feels to exist.

But Death and I are old friends, we have danced on this rooftop before and it has taught me the steps to this dance and I have forgotten them, forgotten how to live, forgotten how to die, forgotten the way it might feel to feel again.

So when Death offers me a hand, when its eternal dance seems to waver in its strength or its light grows brighter with the lives of the taken, what else is there to do but take its hand? To let it wrap around me in a comforting embrace, to let it hold me while I sob, while my tears stain its body a miserable gray.

But it is all forgotten. Forgotten. The sun is shining on Death as I paint each stroke, unbearable in its invisibility.

But what about the good of love? What about the good of the mountain and the way it feels when the wind blows through your hair?

I would join in the song of the wind, I would fly over mountains and soar through trees. I would meld the weakness of my voice to the strength of yours.

I would befriend the sky and revel in its blue, I would chase the shapes in the clouds until I could feel their embrace, until we were one and the same and I could feel as you feel and think as you think and be as you be.

But what happens when the wind dies down? Would I scream at the world and sob into the sky? Would I grasp at the clouds as I fall, as the wind abandons me? Looking for a way to stay aloft, looking for something that is long since lost to me. What happens when the stillness is too much and the world is so silent it could break?

There is too much. Too much knowing, too much thinking too much feeling. And my voice is growing weak next to yours, next to your beauty, next to your freedom in a cool breeze. Next to the way it might feel to fly.

Everything is fading. Fading. Death in the wind as I dance with steps I have already forgotten.

So what about misery? What about the misery of pain, the misery of broken promises and lost words?

I would suffer in the loss of your words, I would break, I would fracture and pray to lost gods to bring them back to me.

But they have gone, they are so far away in their rhythm, lost to the emptiness and the place things go when they have been forgotten.

And maybe I am lost in misery, writing with the red of pain my only companion. How they look over my shoulder, how words flow through us, a breath for a breath, every beat of our heart chasing the last, in the futility of living, in the wonder of feeling and the chaos of misery.

And there is something about how sometimes the world is a broken promise, how sometimes misery sits with the red silhouette of pain and watches the shattering of life, watches the way things fall apart and revels in it, in the spirits of broken promises, crafts the words with the ghost of what could have been and the echoes of sounds long since silenced.

And I think I am falling. Falling. In love and pain, singing the words to a song that has long since faded.

And so it comes to joy. Joy in light, joy in closing your eyes against the warmth of the sun.

But what do I know of joy? What do I feel when the sun sinks its rays into my skin, when I breathe in the warmth and let the light pull me into its embrace.

How will I paint the light so that you can feel its touch? How will the strokes of my hand capture the way shadows cower in my presence, the way sunrise peaks over mountain tops in its shades of pink and gold?

I would dive into the light. Bathe myself in orange and red until there is nothing left when I close my eyes.

I would swim in the sun and feel myself burning apart. I would drown myself in the light, in the yellow and the joy and the way it feels to be nothing at all.

But what do you do when the light has faded? What do you do when the sun has set? After the blues and purples have taken over the sky and the darkness seems impenetrable?

When the colors behind my eyes have dimmed to black and the world seems lost to its shadows again?

It is blinding. It is dark and the light that I once painted the canvas with has left me in black again. And I am forgetting, forgetting how it felt to swim in the sun, forgetting how to capture the light in each stroke.

I am invisible. Invisible. A brokenness in light as I write the words. And somehow, I can't stop falling.

Day Three

But I think I see myself in shades of gray. I think I see the world with walls, the sky in limits, the clouds as layers of storms and whites.

And I want to see the world cry, I want to feel the tears drip onto my fingers, I want to revel in the way the water sparks and stills, in the feeling of being my fingertips and being one with the way the world seems to spin and spin and spin and spin. Maybe if I stand still enough, I could feel the world move, the way the planets chase each other and never catch up.

And it feels like the world is an endless circle and we're all just crashing into each other, the infinity of destruction and the way I could chase you, the way I would chase you until my feet couldn't touch the ground anymore.

And maybe then I would be walking on the end, but I think maybe I could walk anywhere if you would follow--walk amongst the planets and tour you through the galaxy and watch the way you smile at the stars who watch you back.

And I think that they would marvel at you too, marvel at you like I do and shine brighter in a fight for your attention.

And sometimes I think that maybe I want the world to end, maybe I want to be a shadow at the far reaches of the universe and maybe I want to watch everything come to an end. Maybe I want to see the stars explode and watch the planets burn and maybe I want to be omnipotent, ethereal, everything all at once and nothing at all.

And I think that if we could walk the far reaches of the space, if we could stroke the cold that should harden our hearts and dance through the stars, your hands on me and mine on you. But even when our steps are slow and our spins catch the stars, even when the darkness seems bright with its emptiness and the way it feels to cry seems so far away, even then, I think that maybe you could be my light. You could be my star and guide me to the way I think it would feel to fall in love.

And I want to take your hand and fly, I want to take your hand and run through stars and venture the galaxies like wind through the woods and I want to take your hand and gather the stars in my pockets and chase the wind with light in our eyes.

But, really, I think I just want to take your hand, because I think the softness of your palm might fit perfectly in mine and I want to trace the lines of your hand and watch the way they move and feel the way they could touch me.

But I don't know what it is, why I could see the universe in your hand and watch the way your fingers move, why I can't stop thinking about the way our fingers might intertwine together, how your thumb might brush mine, how there is nothing I would rather do than hold your hand and find the universe in the way it might feel to trace your outline into the darkness behind my eyes.

But it is long winded now, it is a love letter in hiding, it's me thinking too much and falling for the way I am drowning in my own ignorance, falling for the way I want you to think about me as I think about you.

And I want to be Red and Blue. And I think maybe we have been dropped in colors, falling and fading, chasing each other through time, unraveling and putting each other back together. And maybe we could paint the sky purple, maybe there is a sun that rises just for us, that paints words on the sky that only we can read.

And I want to be black and white. I want the lines to divide the gray, to meddle in the way it might feel to walk on my own feet, to chase the colors of the universe.

And I see layers in the clouds. I see the way they overcome each other, how they are deep in hollows and shallow in blues. How they run from each other, toward each other, how they never stop to think about where they are going. I see them building in shades of gray, see the way flashes of light cast their anger on the world. I see them cry and I see them intertwine in the way lovers embrace. I see their grays mounting on each other, see the lines they draw in the mist and run my fingers over the place where the battlefields meet. I see them wage wars on each other, see one overcome the other, see how the lines shift and the dimension of the textures fall into one another.

But there is something about the sky being at war with itself, something about how the wind watches and pushes, how she eggs on the foes and blows them back together again, how they chase each other across the days. How neither has claimed victory.

But oh, victory. What is there to lose when there is nothing to lose at all? And it's the contradictions, how they fit, how the universe keeps them apart yet they are always together.

And I can't get enough, can't get enough of being opposites, of canceling each other out, of how the light and the dark breed shadows, how one can't exist without the other.

It's dependence on your enemy, it's love rivaling hate, it's the way you must cross a bridge to get to the other side, it's the cavern spread out before you and the feeling that maybe you want to jump in.

But I can't think. I can't think.

There is success and failure and the way they are somehow the same, the way they build into balance, how every opposite is in itself its opposite.

And maybe I have gone on too long, but I think I get lost in the way the words sound, the way they click together, the way nothing makes sense, but there is beauty in it anyway.

And I crave the way the world works, the way it might feel when a broken clock starts ticking again. I want to see the gears connect and watch the surmounting strength rise until it breaks free in that soft sound that lives in the world as background noise, that haunts the troubled and shouts its words to the waiting.

I want to translate the words of time as they tick their message to the world. I want to sort through the minutes and swim in the hours. I see the seconds blushing in liquid gold as I dive into their depths, as they wash away the embarrassment of my nakedness and curl around me, floating and solid and born into the universe almost nothing at all.

I journey to the far reaches of the world, of the galaxy; I chase time’s words through the cosmos, thinking in letters, in numbers, in the language of the wind, in silence the way the end of everything is silent. I trace the mountains of distant planets, watch the trees bend time in faraway jungles. I fall apart and laugh with Death and uncover lost treasure and bury away deep secrets.

But I crave time most of all, the way the world breaks apart and puts itself back together, the way infinity is nothing but a loser’s game and I watch them gamble away minutes like they're nothing to miss, watch them throw away hours like nothing comes to an end and sidle their seconds to the feeling of nothing at all.

But I can't translate their words and time won't exist if there is nobody to measure it and the clock is still ticking and my mind is full of empty. Drowning and drowning in the way it feels to exist, to throw oneself into a pool of liquid time, to watch yourself dissolve into words that aren't words, into chasms with no darkness, into thoughts that don't think.

Day Four

And they all want me to feel better. Feel better?

We’re all just here to help you?

But these words are too raw, too ugly, and I keep trying to carve them into something beautiful, to shave away their edges so they glisten like I want them to.

But instead of falling apart, things are coming together. Coming together? I don't want to be a puzzle. I don't want to click or look at the full picture. I want to scatter my pieces to the far corners of the world and bury them in the sands of distant deserts, in the damp earth of far away jungles and the cold snow of unexplored places. I want to stomp them out and burn them to ashes and mourn and marvel at the empty spaces they leave behind.

Because maybe I was never meant to come together. Maybe I don't want to feel better and maybe I don't want your fucking help.

They serve me cocktails of blues and whites, dust in shades of cherry red, the intricacies of their paper glasses dumped into my hand as if the colors aren't made of magic.

But who am I if I am made up of your potions?

Am I yours or my own if my head doesn't function without capsules of blue and circles that don't seem orange but are?

Maybe it would be better to let me go.

Because I don't want the petals to hang on just for me, because to bloom you must fall apart and I don't want your worry to tear you to pieces, because someday I will fall apart and I won't rise to bloom again.

And somehow I want to become the beauty of words, I want to distill my soul into stories and grind my body into pages.

But there is nothing I crave more than insanity and the way it might feel to exchange words with my own mind, to see the beauty I can create, and maybe I will crush it to dust instead of letting it see the light, because I think I am akin to the darkness, to the way it might feel to be nothing at all.

And maybe I am obsessed with nothing--nothing, nothing, nothing--the way it is to be nothing, do nothing, see nothing, feel nothing. The way I want to exist and evaporate, fly and fall, destroy and create.

It's how I would revel in watching the end of everything, how I want to crush my essence into powder and scatter it into the light of a dying star.

But maybe there is something in endings, something in the way the universe falls apart that I find entrancing, something elegant and brutal and real, seen and unseen, loved and unloved.

And I feel entwined in endings, feel the way tragedy chases, mirrors, clouds the mind of reality with its truth.

And oh, tragedy, tragedy, tragedy.

I feel the hurt like the moment the high hits.

I feel the pain as joy and paint the clouds in a cloudless sky.

I soak the sun into my palms and trace the warmth into the pads of my fingers.

I outline the clouds with my fingertips and paint the world in shades of gray.

And I feel the endings in their beginning, the lows in their highs, the darkness in their light.

I war with happy endings and shatter happily ever afters under the heel of my boots. Because there is nothing to be seen that will not end, nothing to find that will not be found.

And I am feeling the way the world moves, feeling it inch its way to decay.

I am feeling the vastness of the ocean, the secrets it keeps in depths where things go when they are long lost to us.

I am feeling every ending all at once, feeling the way sometimes things break and sometimes they can't be fixed.

And I think that maybe I am in love with the way things end, the way the world ends.

And I think that maybe I am in love with tragedy, with broken pieces and the way the light will always give way to the darkness.

But what is there to think when reality and tragedy stand together? Maybe one can con their way out of traps, charm their way into forbidden places, fight through carnage into victory.

But there is no victory without tragedy, no love without hatred, no chance of escape without first the craving of freedom.

I find nothing in the way the world seeks joy, nothing in how maybe there is nothing to seek at all.

But what is there left when your words have scared the world into insanity? What is there left when the cadence, the elegance of feeling doesn't make sense anymore? When the song you want to sing has faded from your memory?

But maybe there is no time for thinking, no time for feeling.

No time to follow happiness’s trail, to catch it and make it your own.

So what happens when futility comes back to nip at your heels? What happens when the way it feels to be made of darkness turns you into a shadow?

I have too many questions for the world and not enough answers, not enough time to learn how to feel again, not enough time to sing with the whales and fly with the sparrows, not enough to learn the language of the universe or chase the stars through time.

I will run out of ways to exist. I will run out of answers to question and soon the words will fade away too, soon they will break my heart and shatter my soul in their absence. And the way I love them, the way I touch them with thought and cradle them in my heart, the way they build my thinking and chase down my feelings into sense, it will all be lost, the words and the way I shaped them.

And soon I will lose my mind and abandon my thoughts to the eternality of the way it feels to fall apart.

And soon there will be nothing left to hold onto, nothing between the great chasm of the world and the eternal mystery of the universe--nothing to break your fall or guide you through a lightless world.

So what is there to do? What is there to do?

Because I don't want to chase happiness, I don't want to fall into its maze or battle its minotaur. And somehow I don't want to smile at the world or laugh at its insanity.

But maybe to fathom the world’s end is to question its beginning, maybe to light the chasm of chaos is to strike a match that doesn't burn, to play an instrument with no sound, to fall in love with hatred.

I will never find the light. I will never catch happiness in its wood or understand the universe and its great mystery.

But I think maybe there is something you can't see in darkness, something that haunts and flies and loses its mind just when you thought it had taken it back again.

And I want to chase the futile. I want to close my eyes and cancel my thoughts and drift away to a world that doesn't exist.

I want things to make sense without making sense, to fly without wings, to contradict its own contradictions. I want the world to spin in a square and I want to breathe without breath.

And somehow we make each other and somehow we break each other, we build walls and tear them down, we spin and we spin and we spin in circles that chase each other in dizzying repetition.

And I want to travel across the wings of time and watch the world burn. I want to change the past and make the future.

I want to know the universe like an old friend and run through the feathers of time to get away from myself.

And maybe I am thinking too hard, maybe I am saying too much. Maybe time doesn't have wings and the dark is just dark.

But I think there is something about how I could change everything and nothing all at once, something about how time passes in a river and fills the lakes with gold.

Something about how the world will end, and I am in love with endings.

About how the world is tragic, and I am in love with tragedy.

Day Five

And I don't know what to say. I don't know what to say.

Because I don't know if I am the words, or if they are me, where they end and I begin.

And I want my words to power the mad, I want to write something you couldn't stop thinking about.

And I think I want to die on a mountain top and sometimes the world shines in black glitter and sometimes I can see the makeup of the universe, see the way the world moves.

But there is something about how my pen is running out of ink, something about how I have trained myself into silence and how when the sun hits your eyelashes you can see them shimmer.

So when nature takes back the world, when vines scale the skyscrapers and towers crumble to trees, I think I want it to take me along. I think I want to feed off the sun and bury roots into solid ground, I want the ivy to curl around my skull and divine in the way my ribs crack to flowers.

And I wonder if there is a way to blow in the wind. I wonder how my limbs would blow away.

But I don't want to be abstract, I want to be beautiful and I want to capture the world in letters and recover pieces of your soul that you thought lost.

And I want to bury myself in contradictions, I want to breathe in water and breathe out fire, to inhale yeses and exhale nos.

But I shouldn't be so in love with the terrors of the world, with the way things don't make sense, but maybe I am hewn from darkness, maybe I am made for the negatives and the nos.

Maybe I was made to rip things apart so that those made of light can put them back together.

I think that maybe I am obsessed with contradictions, with the way space is empty, the way flying is falling and how losing is somehow winning. How growth is also decay and how existence itself will tear you apart in the end. And I think it is all about the way nothing matters but everything counts, how the world will come back to itself but nothing will be the same.

Because maybe the world travels in circles, maybe the universe chases itself, falls apart and puts itself back together.

And I am going on, I am spinning the words into patterns I have already made before, tracing shapes I have already traced.

But, still, I am infatuated with endings, yet circling myself, I am ripped to pieces, yet sewn back together.

And I think there is something about how you have to take a step forward in order to take a step back and how sometimes you can't step forward without first stepping back. I want my footsteps in snow, my patterns in shades of gray. I want the cold to burn and the heat to freeze.

I want to feel the peace in freezing to death.

But there is something about a snowy morning that is the same as the silence at the end of the universe, how there is nothing to echo, nothing left to break or make.

And I question the way arrows point, the way circles neither begin nor end, the simplicity in losing your mind. The way I have words in my skin and words in my mind and how that is both maddeningly the same and sanely different.

But I am measured in scales and numbers, in 1-10s and how are you feelings, in questions that don't make sense and answers that mean the same.

I am forgetting things. I am losing words that speak truths. I am combing oceans for lost treasures and climbing trees just to fall.

But what is there to lose when you've said all that needs to be said, when you've seen the world from its tallest point, when there are no more sentences that make sense? And there is something about how I fill pages with words that don't mean anything, how I fill lines with useless sentiments.

I juggle a world that will end and a universe that will die with it. I waste my time on words that I don't think are a waste.

And I can't seem to pin down the words like I did yesterday, can't catch the right ones or find the places they hide. I travel the caves of stolen mountains that don't exist and cross the plains of distant valleys that aren't real. I search for them in the crooks of forest streams and the dust of things lost. I scour the ends of the earth from highest peak to lowest ocean. And sometimes I think that they don't want to be found, sometimes I mourn the way I still hear their calls, how I find the outlines of them in places once beautiful.

It's how their shadows trail me with taunts, how their ghosts make footprints in the snow of distant woods.

We are chasing each other from opposite sides, traveling the same lands at opposite times.

We follow the same streams, we are guided by the same trails. An infinity with and without, a cycle broken and unbroken.

But I will spend eternity in love with endings, and I think that maybe we will fall apart together, maybe one day I will tread on their ashes as they will tread on mine. My shadows will lose them as theirs will lose me.

But I hope that maybe I could find them at the end of everything, that we could watch the way silence overcomes all noise, the way nothing overcomes all everything.

And maybe, as the end, our chase will be over.

therapy

About the author

l blickensderfer

lil bit sad but a lil bit cool too

https://twitter.com/ljblick

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