A waking dream, a spontaneous combustion.

Visualize this if you will....

The voices, the lights and the whispers,
The knowing smile and the pretty face,
That look in her almond eyes.
Flitting through your dreams.
Ever evasive.
Dreams. Octane dreams.
Knowing, deep inside, that it is all but a passing phase.

Nothing is real,
The dreams tell me that every other night.
All the images of BeingWantedAndWarmthAndBeingLoved,
Mere manifestations of the ticking clock inside.
Tick tock tick tock.

The unknown force driving you to Wait,
Wait eternally for that significant other,
A practical joke being played on you by that bastard puppeteer above you,


Those passing visuals you witness,
Not of endless calamities, but of
Fair maidens that come your way once in a wolf's cry,
They get your mind racing,
Turn your drained gully of a heart into a fucking waterfall,
*Thud*
Hammer. Heart beating like a Hammer.
They turn your incisions and your scars, inside out.

And then they leave. Poof. Gone.
*Thunderclap*


The impregnated black clouds seem to follow me as I walk back home,
Back to the place, back to my sanctuary,
Where all I do is waste away on visions of.....STOP.


Now,

Is it worth it, I ask myself.
To kill that part of you to feel the lack of pain.
To lose yourself in your mindless self-indulgent bouts of sunshine, on a rainy day,
To paint a fake smile on your darned face,
To waltz through broken cobbled boulevards, Walking Dead.
To smoke a cig and blame it on infinite possibilites.
To watch a broken twig bleed,
To burst into flames to pardon those who broke you.
To save the saddest songs for last.
To try, just try.
The answer lies in the skies, they said.

Fuck It All. I give up. My fall of grace, dust to ashes, ashes to dust, whateveryouwannacallit.
I have had enough of reading this endless manuscript of Waiting; when will I ever find the last page?

When, goddamnit?
Fuck.


And yet,
And YET,


On those nights,
Those silent nights,
When the lights go out.
When you turn around, and look into the eyes of the prettiest girl you'd ever seen.
When all you do, is look out the window as she does,
At the same cursed twinkles of Existence, the stars,
And the stars tell you, Turn Back, Look at Her.
And that unknown force,
That points your eyes towards hers,
And lets you see,
That tiny diamond of a tear in the depths of that glimmering well,
Her pretty face blurred by the moonshine,
That flicker of a smile, sweetly worn.

Then DAMN it,

You change your mind.
You realize,
All hope is not gone.

And you know you're right.


*Flicker*

*Undiscernable Static*


Ah, the sweet sound of silence.

A Stellar Maybe.

Like ink running off the neck of a feather,

He draws upon a shaky conclusion as he trembles to get his thoughts right,

A conclusion he does not love.

But one he remains firm on, as firm as the lone leader of a pack of wolves howling into the night, standing at the edge of a crevice so deep,depth deserved a new definition;

"Why is the world just a shallow earthen pot of half sun-baked black dahlias, rather than one filled with a bountiful bloom of a psychedelic display of colors emanated by the brightest of the bright magnolias?

Why is it always a true story that when every man, woman or child you know,looks at you as if you had uttered sheerly the most blasphemous of blasphemous phrases ever to be phrased when you had indeed voiced out a mere fabric of your brilliantly complex nervetree of ground breaking thoughts?

Why is the population of the very planet You grew up on,just a mere mass army of monotonously idle media-driven group of single minded individuals, who dared to explore their vastly complex storehouses of unborn ideas only as much as blind armies of wounded men would, when they barely scraped the surfaces of hostile castles with their drawn swords erstwhile failing to realize the castles even existed?

Why is it virtually a sin to wander unto yourself and discover the true reason for your pitiful existence on this planet, while it is something worthy of applause on a grand scale when one carries out an act that just cements the ideology that every mind must follow a specified path into a dark void of linear oblivion when there are actually a countless number of roads you could take to actually explore your own mind and free yourself from the binding chains of Stigma?

Why is it Wrong to be random and spiral out of yourself to explore metaphysical depths untold of, while it is Right to be a typically traditional God fearing individual drowned in theological lies driven into him like nails by the hammers that the Elders in his Family possessed?

Why did the sacred art of Love involve two plastic souls pretending to the world that they were indeed One and the Same by engaging in fake acts and speaking out mindlessly artificial phrases lacking in Heart, all the while massacring and mutating beyond comprehension, the true meaning of what the word Love actually represented? "

The answer would never come to him, he concluded.

Struck his heart like a poisoned arrow it did, that Change was not possible.

He would have to live on.

Live on.

Live on.

Live on, and yet not daring to Live as Living was meant to be Lived.

Not for one moment, daring to step out of the circle of fire drawn around him by the rest of the mindless souls marching on towards the End.

Not for one moment, daring to hope that someday, he might just find that one person to complete him and shine Light upon his thoughts.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Ah, the travesties of an unsatisfied incomplete man, he thought.

It was all part of the game of Life. No strings attached, but no spiral staircases into the unknown either.

* Soft music in the distance*

A discontent sigh of a man shaken by his own conclusions,

as he turns to a mirror and looks into his own eyes, thinking

'Maybe it is not meant to be.

Maybe I am not meant to reach out.

Maybe I am not meant to step beyond the invisible boundaries I couldn't cross.

Maybe I am meant to walk on an already trodden path towards a Dead End I would never see. And maybe, just maybe, my thoughts weren't meant to cross a Human mind. '

Is that not a sad sight to see, my friend?

Because, I will tell you, maybe that man is Me.