Bee hits window. Slides down a bit. Trace of sorrow remains at impact point. Repetition ensues.
---------End Of Reason---------
Fingers contorted tightly around hair damp with blood. The clean lino flooring feels cold as you pull your fisted hand down from your head and close to your body. The rain batters hard against the window to your left hand side. Repeated under the hushed humm of the extractor fan you ask “why?”
“oh fuck this shit!” you shout. Throwing your weight as you rage. Hands flung in the air and stress leaking from every crevice in your body The internal monolog of your life to date echoes in the stereo of your mind. Your ears banging. “FUCK!” swearing for the sheer sake of it. This moment becoming more intense than you had first thought it would be. “Sure, 11am in mono... Yep.. Uh-huh..” The phone sweaty on your right ear. This is routine. “fuck you and your details. Fuck you!” shouting in your ears alongside your internal monolog. “why the fuck do you have your cock out? And why the fuck is it online.???” Your mind wonders. “FUCK FUCK FUCK” shots of rage spill in your mind. “who was he to do this and why the fuck do I feel this way. I have no commitment to you and you have no commitment to me, it doesn’t feel this way though. It feels like your mind. It feels like I'm yours still. Geeze. This is messed up. I am sad. I am sad that I have this internal monolog and this “FUCK FUCK FUCK” shot of rage. “His name is Robert Paulson.” its a release.
Get your fucking ass out my fucking face. I hate this. You and your fucking tiny mind. I hate your fucking ass face. Was I asleep? Have I slept?
Your toes outstretched in your muddy brown shoes. The stage seems vast in your presence as you grab up your arms to clench down on the cold metal of the microphone. You sleep like a kid with one hand stuck to the side of your face. This is love. This is love. Pulling the extra cord to the sky as you sing. The orange of your vest. The orange of your vest. Emotion flowing through the air as the notes you sing hang steady in the air. Held tight to the inside of you chest, reverberating in endless echoes. You’re like that doll you wind up as a child, the rusty door you pull with two hands. sit with me as we pull our covers into mountains. Your fingertips touch mine. We’re out to prove its not in me and not in you. We’d like to see some colour. Its due. Lying next to me and feeling you, I’d like to breath in colour.
The room stands still without your presence. Fake ivy sits on the mantel piece with a thick layer of dust. I forget the true colour of words. Their subtle hue brings no light into this room now. I fear the ivy will see no light, forever destine to sit under its thick protective cover. Wake me with your coloured hue in the darkness of this silent room. A whisper blows a faint trail of dust into the air. The crack of light from the keyhole revealing a dance. Tiny specks of dust twist and turn in that piercing shaft of light. The floor is shallow here. That sinking feeling not as strong. Your feet find a firm ground reminding you of back home. Back when your ankles never ached. But this is an empty apartment now and no longer will your chair hold the arch of your back. it will wait in silence. Protecting itself with a thick layer of dust. The impression from your hands on each chair arm as you heaved your body up that last time will fade. The lack of colour erasing your memory with every moment this room sits idle.
Wanted to share something today. No more throwing stones at bees. Carry no burden on your muscled shoulders. What ever your passion is you have to keep working at it all the time. If you love what you do then love what you do. One should rarely stop to show fear. Sip the hue of the words you sing as you sit on the floor, legs crossed. I think of you when I fist met you. The centre of your life out of sync with your love. You were a significant performer of talent.
“Omg I need a GF”
This statement from an eleven year old. Is this a by-product of a society built ever more by divorce, war mistrust and fear? The fear that we’ll be alone only existing in a shadow of a couple. The shadow of our parents couple. If our need springs erratic from night to night (i.e. the one night stand) is this our evidenced confusion to media and parents?