Paper walls

A dying extrovert is what I am right now, just doing everything I can to prevent my extinction. Holding on always seemed so exhausting, very exhausting. As much as I love to talk so much, I love keeping shit to myself as much too. I tell myself, it is not real. It is not real when it is in my head, it's delusional. I am delusion and everything seems to be that way, it is easier. Everything I utter seems so repetitive. Every word feels like I've already spoken about it before. It is uneasy, it really is, in a way. But no matter how repetitive everything I utter is, it's still real and it is not delusional.

These days, I have this recurring dream, I just drown. Drowning in a pool of my own blood, which tastes like frozen candy for some reason, but it is still painful when I wake up. The ghosts are catching up to me. It is easier to live your whole life in discomfort, than ever knowing comfort at all. Because when you do, when you know comfort and security and it is snatched away from you. What do you do? Now the comfort you found in your grievances is gone, the comfort you found in the warmth, is gone too. Life does take this absurd turn, where no level of comfort would make up for the comfort you lost. Nothing will ever make up for it, and that's what you think. Because better days, seem so unreal, like a fools' pipe dream. How every existential angst quite does seem like at home, because when you suffer at least then you give yourself permission to feel something, anything really.

I think this piece is about to lose it's flow, maybe it is just in my head. I mean everything is really. I find myself uttering these words every now and then, it does seem weird, at least to me;

STAIRCASE TO THE MOON

i keep running towards you, but why does it also feel like you keep following me,
and no matter how hard or how far i run,
i can't seem to catch up to you,

so i decided to build a staircase to the moon,
so i could at least keep looking down,
make sure you are okay,
when you look up,
i am right here,
even when i'm not,

and if it gets real lonely,
i'll put down a rope,
so just hold onto it, yeah?
and i'll pull you up,

we could either look down on the speck of an earth,
or we could stare into the universe,
and feel like the specks we're supposed to be,
but before that lemme build a staircase to the moon.

—a 

I kept uttering this to myself all night long, that is when I knew I needed to write. Because no matter how thoughtful it is, it seems so thoughtless too.  A poem to myself, sure does feel like self love in a problematic way. I really like uttering complicated things just for the sake of it, but now everything sounds so simple and even though people understand what I say, I never could really bring myself to feel that I am understood the way I want myself to be. I have been writing a poem and a song a day for the past week, I genuinely do not understand how I found myself in this situation, I mean I do, but I'd rather not say. So, seven poems and seven songs, all about the cost of vulnerability, and what is that?

Second paragraph I referred to how "the ghosts are catching up to me", there will always be a part of myself that would always haunt me, something that seems like an ancestral sin, but it was just me, not owing or allowing myself to make the right judgement when I was vulnerable, so being clouded by my judgements, to get through the cold cold night, instead of trying to sleep in the ship, I dismantled the ship, used every plank there was to keep the temporary fire going throughout the night, when morning came it felt relieved, calming, serene and tranquil, but little did I know that I'd be stuck in this deserted island, with no means to come home, or I'd just make it my own home?

Navigating life, in this lonely cold island, with nowhere to turn to, but God. Even now, everything I said and spoke about seems so repetitive, but maybe that is how I navigate this island, by familiarizing myself with my own words of comfort, and patting myself on the back, shit I just imagined spanking myself, but moving on. I will end this with one last poem, I call it;

SAND CASTLE

built these walls, not high up but just enough so people could peek in,
little windows so i could observe, and not get involved,
shaped the walls with my bare hands and a piece of board,
until the waves took it away,

built my castle again bigger now, better now, stronger now,
but the walls came down, just a little bit,
so that one person could enter,
but right now the castle withstood waves and storms,
was destroyed from the inside,

built my castle again, far away from the shore,
far away from people,
isolated,
isolation,
loneliness,
walls high people can't enter,
castle so strong it doesn't break anymore,
but lost this view of the ocean,
no more observation,
just from afar wanting to be close, scared of walls being knocked out,
afraid the castle would blow up from the inside,

built another layer over,

the standards the kept increasing,

so did the loneliness.

—a