The love of my life is fickle.
With every move, with every turn, time brings me further away from my love, but its sweet image nearer to my heart.
It trickles between my fingers, running away.
A hologram of happiness, desire and pain. A flickering glimpse onto something like inner peace, a delusion pinched from a clouded dream.
There is that tiny space, where I belong.
Only a spec on the map of reality.
In those nights and dawns, spent in the silence of that milky yellowish grey of the sky, my love becomes more vivid than anything around me. Or anything inside me…
I keep imagining that I’m on a space station in orbit, and look down on that filthy place I call home. A wonderful and terrifying place I origin from. Itself equally an enigma, truthfully lied, made up and real, beautiful and ugly.
I am ashamed and proud. Even that contradiction is heartfelt and true to me. Equally me, equally not me…
I’ve always been afraid of the dark.
My whole life I was scared when the lights went out. When the day dissolved into the night, I crawled, as fast as I could, under my blankets, leaving my reading lamp on. Often the whole night.
But things change…
There is no reading lamp – not anymore. No blankets. I sit in my chair, smoke and wait for the dusk to come. The grayness descends so slowly, carefully, not to scare anyone away.
Emerging from the business of midday, from the productivity others use to care for, the twilight spawns. Slowly unfolding, growing… As if breaking up the surface of reality, the fuzziness within and around things reveals itself.
In those moments I feel my heart beating stronger, louder, faster… As if it would respond to a call, I did not hear in the first place. Ill-defines movements under a dust layer. Left alone, for so many centuries. Left to feel despair, to feel quilt, to feel … myself, my flaws.
Somewhere between now and fifteen years ago, I lost my fire.
I didn’t even notice… It is one of those things, which disappear without traces.
Fifteen years ago, I was stubborn and defiant. Resilient to the hostile impulses from outside. Resilient to everything. I clung to life and my goals, with teeth and claws. I was desperate. I showed everyone what I was capable of, when they laughed at me. It seemed, I had important goals to reach.
I’m older. And tired. The goals faded, their importance vanished. I do not cling anymore. Today exhaustion rests on my eyelids, my back. It is the dust on my shoulders, the weakness of my hands… Still I’m desperate. Silently thrusting my claws into the fabric of my dreams, ripping them apart. I sleep a lot, than I can’t sleep a bit. Something tells me, that I should be angry…
One thing changed in those fifteen year. There is no one left to laugh at me now… No one to compare myself too… I’m alone now. Isolated from hostility and contempt.
Is this why I rip myself apart?
Is the missing other component the friction to light a spark?
Why can’t I find my own motor? Why do I need others?
Why is there no strength left in me, only the stiffness of my joints? The rigidity of my mind, the rigidity of my body. I’m slowly turning into stone without that fire.
What should I do?