Fruit flavored pills. Green circles and red dots. The magical sounding 'ding' marked the moment where you need to prepare yourself for take off, where you fail to find anything but a chain to brace yourself to the ground hoping it'll help you resist surrender, resist temptations of the now, resist period. Recurring dreams chase you down the road, catching up and throwing stones. A flashback of your past "moments of choice", where freewill turned against you, grabbed your hand tight, and jumped; and you spend the rest of your life wondering how long it will take you to hit the bottom of the world. The elevator crash that crushes your every little bone, making you realize how weak and fraction of nothingness you truly are; the drowning and lung rupture; the little reptile biting on your back, swallowing bits and pieces of your tail of denial, shrieking in triumph, morphs of the ever existing feeling of guilt that tears you apart. A pair holding hands; a picture that should have been shot in black and white to add value to a fake commercial emotion they tend to force on you, making it memorable, worth fixating on for a while, worth crying for and worth dying for; especially when you're the man in the background burning up in your flames, in your own created envy, despising the man who got there first; and yet you keep going, seeking a better tomorrow, your exit door, running for presidency of a member-less club that you've established inside your sorry self. You pull down the curtains in fear of light, in fear of hope; you've been fooled enough for this lifetime. It's in the dark where you seek your comfort, your reality check, where what you see can only be what you get. And yet, deep inside, you can't stop running. You can't stop for breath. You're too afraid to stop. Your nightmares chase you from behind and your dreams up ahead with you, just you, in the middle of a chain reaction that leads nowhere, and the faster you run, the further the dreams get, the heavier the nightmares' breaths get on the back of your neck, and the dimmer it gets; a race against your own common sense. Where are you, o familiar violin? I need a friendly tune. You push yourself onto a ledge wishing to fall and wishing to die, but somehow something always finds a way to pull you back into reality, 'Your life as it is' by your ever enchanting guilt. 'Deal with it', it says, but you can't. All you can do is dance to the music along with everybody else and wait for the trance to stop.

My handwritten will; a dark road that leads nowhere.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи on Monday, August 07, 2006 at 8/07/2006 11:38:00 PM | Permalink