Unidentifiable

I can't find very much - they are under stacks of paper, unseen, unidentifiable. I should be able to see it. I know I put them there but I think they're just buried under the mountain of work and words, passages of mispelled and unstructured essays. 

I won't see it - but when I do, it will probably be undecipherable and I probably won't even remember why I wrote it. I can't remember it now come to think of it. I just can't.

I hold it all really tightly together. The words, I mean - I hold them so tightly in my mind and squashed between the day's work that they can't breathe. They don't come out and when they do, they're just jumbled and unidentifiable scribbles on paper with black ink blotches on the side. I can't read them or see them properly. 

So I now need to find them, as they sit tucked away under some coffee-stained agreement (which I really need to find) and maybe reread it again and try to make sense of what it all means. But it might just be they are words lost and now I just need to build them up again.

It feels, however, that I've held them so tightly that they've been crushed, and completely unidentifiable.

Story

I thought I'd written the story perfectly.

It felt perfect when I had the pen on the paper and let the words just spill out - they were perfectly arranged and articulated in every sentence. But then I destroyed it by tipping black ink all over the table and by watching helplessly as the darkness seeped into the script and all over the words I'd so carefully woven together.

By the way, did I mention that this is a story of two and not just some stupid fairy tale about Little Red Riding Hood? This was meant to be kept carefully under lock and key but I made a mess of it. Trying to wipe away the ink with my hands only made the black smudge and dismember what little words were left.

I think I said sorry in my haste, and tried to recover everything I could but I now accept it is gone. I remember so little of that story now - all the perfect scenes I'd painted with words are now in the dark and I can't see them any more.

But give me a chance - I'll write some more and correct the mistakes and undo the missing words to create new ones. And I promise I can, and I promise I will compose something more special then the one that went before.

Time to Go

It's time to go, honey.
The night is growing dark,
the children are now in bed
tucked away under covers
protecting them
from imagined monsters and demons
that roam their minds
and maybe it's time we left them
to grow up and grow away.

It's time to go, honey.
There's a fire eating at the edges
devouring through the middle
and it's sadness honey - our sadness
telling us that we can make it;
it pulls a veil over our eyes
and disappears into the night
leaving us blind
and stumbling in the dark.

It's time to go, honey.
It isn't working any more
and it wouldn't matter no more
about the words we would say
or the gestures we could make,
everything is now hushed
broken beyond our grasp
and the sadness is only what
we share; and it can never be the same.

It's time to go, honey
It's time for me to go.

Vignette #8

Let's talk about how you're feeling today.

Um...okay. I guess that's why I'm here. I'm feeling okay.

Silence

What do you mean by 'okay'?

I'm fine. Just okay.

How would you like today to go?

I don't know. I'm not sure what to expect.

We're here today to help you. But in order to do that, you need to say a little more. How are you really feeling?

Silence

I feel everything. Everything from sadness to anger to loneliness. I feel everything. But happy.

Okay. Do you want to run me through these emotions?

I feel sad in the mornings and I then go for a run and the sadness becomes anger which I pound into the pavement. And when I get home, I feel lonely because I've just fought an emotional battle on my own and there's no one there to help me.

Do you know where these emotions come from?

They come from  inside me - the very core of me. It's turmoil all the time. I can't help it.

Silence

Would you like to talk me through the running?

Twiddling of thumbs

It's...it's how I punish myself but reward myself at the same time...a reward because it gives me a chance to battle the feelings and kill the anger. But it's a punishment at the same time because I know I'm hurting myself. I like the pain of running with my injured ankle and the pain of running on an empty stomach. It's an accomplishment. I really do...like it.

Do you think you could be relapsing?

Silence

I don't know.

Because you..

I can sit here all day. And you wouldn't come by
like you promised.
I could pray so hard each day
but you wouldn't no the difference.
Can I make a suggestion
that you do not come back and
see me anymore?
Because you obviously don't care
so why should I in return.

No Love, Honey

No love would come of us, honey
no love would come of us.
We're too rigidly strung by life
held by mere wire which bends not
to accommodate or carress
the bodies we swore each other to.

No love would come of us, honey
the dainty lights of Kensington
shine no sentimentality on us.
We're too cold to the touch
hardly living to breathe hot air
which disappears in winter's night.

No love would come of us, honey
no love at all.
And if I could undo everything
and never have met you, I would,
and live a lonesome life
never knowing at all.

Losing Sight

You're no longer tangible
in my dreams, just fragile,
weak and blurred by distance.
We were
never meant to be
this far, so out of reach,
so out of hand, so much
a stranger to each other.

I don't believe
that you can't see me
standing here
waiting to hold you again,
keep the cold away
keep you out of harm's way,
but you grow alien to the touch.
I don't know these arms
nor these veins that pulse life.

We become two almost-wholes
broken and withered
and no love to patch us up.
We become estranged
isolated from warmth,
and as we seek separate paths
we lose sight of
something that was once
tangible
to make way for something new
something we cannot yet see.

Dreams Fuck You Up

I've forgotten what it's like to write words now. It's been awhile since I've tried to speak. I don't think you could hear the real words and truths behind every gesture of goodbye. They bid farewell, truly for forever. And it's not the not turning back which becomes the haunting last touch.

It's pictured at the back of a bus with street lamps blurring in the background. It's silent and we are the only ones here, sat at the very back on the top deck. We isolate ourselves and then you talk about how things are now murky and dark. You talk about how things can't get better and how things are fading.

I then ask: "What are you saying?"

That moment of hesitation feels like a void in time where senses were heightened, waiting...and then everything falls when the words tumble out of your mouth and I know it is over.

The bus stops somewhere behind Oxford Street and I decide I will disembark before my actual destination and catch the next bus. This is my final farewell to you. I remember that one last look and the bubbling anguish as I part with you for the last time. We cry. And suddenly I find myself standing on the pavement, watching the bus disappear from sight.

The next morning, nothing feels quite real. One side of the bed is empty and I try not to occupy it to pretend you are still there. I still remember the look in your light eyes as I left you on that bus and the way your hair was ruffled, wind-blown by the strong winds. But, despite the vivid image, you are now just a withered figure in my memory and knowing that you're no longer here makes you fade even more.

Taking Melodies Through

Have you written songs which ring a melody

of ending? And if it does, would you hold a song

just for me 

or would it be lost in among the scores of others?

I'd write poems just to spell out departure

from the arms which were so familiar

and then be ready to hold them so close

to my heart, they burn

and singe the edges of my mind. And 

when I take a step back,

I'd realise I'd gone too far to ever return.

So when you compose the next song

for the ears of people you'll never meet,

think about where the melody comes from,

think about why the tune takes a downturn,

think about me

and how I live somewhere in the air

translated through you.

Find

Come find me, 

come find me again,

hidden under the veil

lying under mud and thorns

under the feet of walkers

under the dirtied ground

of scum and drugs.

Come find me,

I've been waiting for long

with the world passing behind me

slowly spinning,

dizzy with anticipation.

Letters to Myself

You know,
I've written the letters to myself,
incoherent, messy, torn.
They chart a story
that winds around my wrist
and writes out missing pieces
in my heart, in my mind
in the very body which contains
no soul. It writes out pain,
anguish and loss.

But you'll never see this.
You'll never read
my letters to myself.
Because they are broken
and incoherent and messy
and torn.
And you wouldn't understand.
You wouldn't, you wouldn't
see the words the way I do.
You wouldn't get my story.
You wouldn't see it my way.

Who am I?

I forgotten what it's like to be truly alone
where the only problems are the ones in your head.

An Introducion

Forgive me for not properly introducing myself. It didn't occur to me that I needed to but clearly it was a bit rude. I apologise.

Hi. I am anyone. I am every person who passes you by, every person you have only briefly met, every person you didn't even notice. I am every person because I carry a story and that story carries a narrative - be it prose or poem or a grainy photograph. I am every person who carries an unlikely story.

So look around and wave because I'm standing right there, waiting to meet you. I hope to see you soon and when we do meet, you might realise that I am you.

How One Shall Go

Talking under the covers
we talked about where we'd go
and how we'd go. Standing on edges
of platforms on London's Underground,
walking ignorantly into Oxford Street
(not looking both ways);
we talk about what we'll leave
and never get back;
we talk about families and friends
and who we will hurt the most.
We talk about us
and how we think we will go.

I trust you

I trust you to tell me a lie.
I trust you to do so because
I know you will.

I trust you to hide from me.
I trust you to do so because
you know you are wrong.

I trust to run and hide
and to be always afraid.
I trust you to disappear forever
when I find out you've lied.

Deeper

Keeping Old Clocks

I put away some time
and paperwork
to love you.

I face my fears
and insecurities
to hold you closer

But you still keep the old clocks
and boots which trod muddy grounds
to keep me at arm's length

and then,
you get angry when I go.

Under the Rug

Has love ever been so hopeless
lying under the rug
swept under with the dirt and dust
only to be trampled on
by you and me during
our nightly altercation

Remember nights snuggled
under covers? Or duvet adventures
we no longer play?
Can we reclaim the pieces
under the rug without the use
of physical gains and silly games?
We stand in retribution
of each other, and then,
we turn our backs and walk away.

The house slowly deserted,
your belongings disappearing,
your presence diminishing,
my memories of you dissipating,
I find powder-pieces lying under the rug
and with a sweep,
it's all gone
and I couldn't want more.

It's like going backwards

I can hear

the intricate plucking of guitar strings

reverberating through the world;

the sound of the bass,

grumbling under the melody

and then a clock

ticking away

as it puts more time 

we can't get back

behind us. 

Time goes backwards 

in the reflection of the mirror;

the music begins to play louder

and it is lost on the winds of the storm 

which batter the roof we lie under.

We move backwards, slowly

into a time where our hands part

and we don't share the bed.

Suddenly our eyes grow strange 

to the sight of each other

and I barely know you and you

barely know me.

Moving further back,

the music becomes manic and it plays,

the sounds of drums and guitars colliding

while we don't. We see each other

on the far end of the bar and it's like

we never knew each other. It's like

we couldn't see each other.

We pay for our own drinks 

and share no contact as the music continues

and the alcohol rushes to our heads.

Then suddenly, we're gone

down different paths, drunkenly

stumbling home to an empty house

an empty bed and we lay our heads

to sleep away the music

and the thoughts of each other.

February

It's because you are new

and exciting,

that I worry about you.

February, please be nice to me.

You're out on my diary

pencilled in with lists,

unforgiving and forlorn

never a day to spare.

February, please be nice to me.

I talk about you

and how you'll be different

not too new and never old

February, please behave for me

I Hate You

The words spill out a little too quickly for me to stop them.

They are permanent like ink from a broken pen on a chiffon blouse. I can't remove it.

I don't blame you for cutting ties and walking away. I said it all too quickly and now I can't take it back.

It's caustic. Unbelievably caustic and I would say sorry for saying it but I can't. What's an apology if it's not heard? Maybe it's just regret?

Words are more powerful in the air than they are on paper...

...I think anyway...

...I say this because words in the air can't be taken back whereas words on paper can be crossed out, erased.

The words I say are bigger than me, have more power than me and to say "I hate you" is beyond any emotion of hatred I can feel.

Basically, I didn't mean it. And now it's too late to undo it all.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Consider this for a moment:

God says to you that faith controls everything. If you pass your exam, it's not because you worked hard but because God wanted you to. If you fall into a hole and lose your limb, it's not because you were careless but because God wanted you to.

So I suppose God wanted me to go for two blood tests...to have both my arms jabbed with a small cylindrical tube to draw 6ml of blood out of me on both occasions. Sigh....I'm tired, God. I really am. If everything is down to you, I shouldn't be blamed for a low WBC count or the depressed face I have on every other day because it isn't my fault...you just wanted it that way.

Am I going to UK then? I don't want to play games any more. I'm sorry for the people around me who have to put up with my inability to get better or be a better person. I'm sorry that I've disappointed. I'm even more sorry that I've to be dependent. I'm GUILTY for being a slave to "faith". I'm feeling this way because God wanted me to isn't it?

I want to say "I wish I were dead" but I can't because that'd not only make me an ass of a sadist but also because I love this life too much. But these games I've had to play....I can't take it any more. I want to live without these things. I really do. I'd shoot myself if that's the way to make everything go back to normal. But I suppose, if I were to shoot myself, I'd be dead.

Mother and father aren't happy. I'm not happy. Faith's made me fork out more money than I'd ever want to. The blood tests, the consultations, the treatments, the injections, the costs of my weekly travels to the medical facilities...materialistically, it's depriving. Emotionally, it's depressing. Physically, it's draining. I literally barely made it into bed last night. What's next dammit...Can't get into the UK because immigration won't let me into the UK in my state. I've got the grades, the uni, the money(sorta) but not the clean bill of health required....??


I dunno.....I'll leave it to faith....

All That You've Done

I'd like to know how it happened.

No. Don't give me a timeline of events. I know exactly what happened - I know the order in which it all happened; I know the role you played in this; I know the story you're about to compose for me.

I want to know how this all happened. And if you can manage it, I'd like to know why.

It's funny how you now have not very much to say. I seem to be getting a little mumble here and there but not much coherence. The story you carefully rehearsed in your head is now gibberish and, quite honestly, serves no purpose in communication.

I think you're not ready to talk about it - maybe the incident was too traumatic to articulate. Maybe you need some time, or rather, more time to conjure a story of how and why it happened. I don't know. I'll just leave you to it and when you finally have something to share, I'll listen.

I can hear the jingle of handcuffs in the distance. They belong to you and your hands, and I hope you're happy about what you've done.

Christmas Tree in the Window

I boarded the train at Guildford to travel away from home to the outskirts of London. The doors closed behind me, shutting out the cold air and keeping in what little warmth winter has left us with.

And off we went.

It was while sitting in the last carriage with my head against the window did I notice how many Christmas trees were still left out in living rooms - I could see them in the windows of the houses we sped past. Many of them were still joyfully lit with colourful lights while some stood lonely in a dim room.

As the Surrey countryside began to merge into metropolitan London, the houses began to lose their warmth and everything seemed to darken slightly. And the sight of Christmas trees began to dissipate until there were none left to be seen. I felt what little we had left of Christmas disappear behind me.

I guess it is already January.

As we pulled into Clapham Junction, I gathered my things and stood by the door waiting for it to open, and when it did, a gush of cold air flooded the train. I got off and looked around - everything's dark and grey and the station has never felt so cold.

I walked to Platform 5 to catch the connecting train and I was the only one there.