The Fire Of Dark (3/18/11)

There is a desperate color here. It aches at his eyes. It aches, anathema of an already broken boy. He curses it, spits what hate he can muster, and yet it does not change. He cannot chase it away. This is because it is a color he has painted. It is a color he belongs to, holds onto, collects. The color of dark.

Here, in this box of a room, one wall is a clownish yellow, the others dull as sand. No memory hangs sullen from the walls. No bookcase for the mountain range that fills his yellow box. He is alone here with his thoughts of rocket ships (Bradbury colored) and all shades of super-hero. He cannot reach the world outside. Cannot break through… not even with this stupid blog.

Sometimes he finds himself losing confidence that anything he does will be remembered. He knows how to meter his words well. His head is a thesaurus. But what are these if no one wants to hear him speak?

End Of Days (3/17/11)

Silence… Delicate silence. And then the endless ration of noise. He rises daily, and there is nothing spectacular in this. He raises his eyes, sets his mind to motion, shakes the dust from weary lungs and begins to whisper promises to himself.

“You’ll Make it. You’ll see.”

Outside is the rabble, chaotic like the fleeing of wounded animals, organized like sickness to wither at his veins. He lets his eyes fall shut, and tries to forget there is a purpose to this. There is a purpose to all of it. A plan. A promise. Eyes shut, mind fighting to just forget that he has woken. He works his lips anew.

“You’ll make it. You’ll see.”

And he sleeps, dreaming sequences of violence and sequences of lust, but mostly just dreaming of all that he’s lost. And he wakes, the idiot alarm sending splinters of panic to his sedated mind. He sleeps beside his phone, his light-up voice box. It rattles every so often, bringing words across the empty air from her. Her… And she never lets him fall asleep again, not til his eyes burn with too much taken in. She brings the sadness in.

“You’ll make it. You’ll see.”

And so he’s up now, in his underwear, ugly in the mirror, though he strains to prove he’s grown his muscles well. He shakes his head like he is a bad joke he’s heard too many times before. He finds himself recounting all the ways he’s disappointed everyone. He knows the mirror’s a bully, but he lets it bully him. He takes some special pride in his loneliness, feels perhaps that he’s the only one to feel this way. In his head he’s become a hero, though he’s never been quite clear who it is he’s saved. He keeps his eyes open, and he breathes.

“You’ll make it. You’ll see.”