Frantically, she tore up the floorboards. “It has to be here!” she half-screeched, as she darted to and fro, searching different places. In the end, she collapsed, crumpling into a heap in the middle of what was left of the floor. Her bleeding fingers pulsed with pain, a reminder, and her glazed eyes wandered to one of the places where she’d torn up the wood. There should have been something underneath of it. A secret passage, a beating heart, a hidden stash with all the answers in it. Dirt, even. She would’ve taken dirt. But instead there was nothing. Just the void, that endless dark. “There should have been SOMETHING,” she whispered, eyes tearing up. “But there wasn’t,” her mind hissed back. Instead of crying, she began to laugh; a mad laugh. The darkness didn’t end at the floorboards.
I’m not intending to be shallow,
But shallow’s what I am;
I wonder if I have a soul —
You tell me that I must;
For who would care to question
If they did not care first?
But the more I try to think of it,
The more it hurts my brain;
For what if all the things I feel
Amount to only phantom pain?
So many broken links
In one long endless chain;
Everybody points, but nobody thinks
That they might share the blame.
They want to dub a “weakest”
So that it will be okay
And the chain at last will be the best
With one link thrown away.
But such chains aren’t made of people,
So easily dismissed:
They’re linked by actions and their ripples;
Made brittle by our emptiness.
I twist myself in knots:
My rope, these aching thoughts;
The maddening echoes I have wrought
By eclipsing every light around.
I call myself so very clever;
I know that nothing lasts forever,
And so to all trapdoors I pull the lever
And listen for the falling sound.
But there’s no tresspasser standing;
No enemy there is dancing,
And I can spend my life demanding
For the culprit to be found.
Yet still there’s something missing
And though the well is filled with wishing
It’s as well as rod-less fishing
And I fear that I’ll be drowned.
What became of us I do not know.
Were we buried beneath the dirt, or snow?
Did we drown beneath the waves so low,
We thought there was noplace underneath to go?
Did we walk the walk right off a cliff?
Did we stay still until the ground would shift?
Did we our spirits try to lift,
Only to fall, or remain adrift?
Did we try to fix the dissonance
With a simple shift of countenance,
Believing that a road paved with pretense
Might be the path to happiness?
Did we wave as the real thing passed us by,
Seeing only a stranger in our eye,
But wondering still if we should stop and lie
And talk about the weather with a sigh?
I suppose we just walked on instead,
Admiring roses black instead of red,
Not bothering to note where this road always led.
Perhaps that is why we lie here dead.
Bury it deep, don’t bury it quick:
Bury it slow, and bury it thick.
Go back, and hide in what you were:
Just a corpse, buried, but never burned.
Hide beneath your blanket, the shovelfuls of dirt:
Hide where none can get you, where you can never hurt.
Hide inside of foggy dreams, hide in endless sleep:
Hide somewhere, showplace that time will never keep.
Dig yourself in deeper, where you might not be found:
And hope and fear that no one digs your corpse up from the ground.
I’m so sorry… Of all the things I could have been, I became this. I could’ve been like my brother and reached out and made a life for myself where I could.
But instead I’m here. Still just sitting here. Waiting for something to befall me, be it destiny or accident.
Probably accident. Screech, crash, bang, and then I’m gone, in all likelihood. It would be just like me to not be paying any attention and accidentally step in front of a car. It wouldn’t be on purpose, of course. But it wouldn’t be exactly unwelcome.
I sometimes like to pretend that I can see the future. The prediction is always the same: I’m going to die alone. It’s not even a future anymore, it’s a fact. I’m going to die alone. So what’s it matter if it’s distant or soon?
I’ve lived nineteen years, going on twenty. So young, and often much younger than I should be. And yet those years, these days, they crawl by like an eternity, and they’ve never changed in form, not really. The world is still a distant thing, and I am still… what I am: The person who walks on the path before me. And it’s still a circular one.
My brother sees this. He sees us all going in circles, ducking our heads, diving into whatever we can to hide. He wants it to change. He wants it to change — but he doesn’t want to change it. None of us do. It would be like organizing a junkyard… while being attacked by a pack of wild dogs. Nobody wants to take that on. Especially when the thing we’re taking on, is the nothingness of never taking anything on. Someone has to start. But each of us vows, it won’t be us.
You tell me I’m no fun,
But I think I’ve overdosed on it:
Years spent laughing, joking;
Often feeling none of it.
You tell me I should talk some more,
But what have I to say?
Nothing you would like to hear,
So I think it best I stay away.
You tell me there’s a world out there;
Well, what is that to me?
I am not you, my dear,
Nor will I ever be.
You suggest I should be happy,
That to speak to me you deign;
But if we’re to talk about the weather,
I think I’d rather speak of rain.
I’m mourning what I’ve never mourned;
I’m losing what I’ve never had.
I’m drowning in a feeling
That I worry is a fad.
I’m surrendering to a sound
Like the combination of a breaking heart
And that ghost that hangs around,
Who likes to materialize and call it art.
I’m waiting for eternity;
Afraid that I don’t really mind,
Because I want to be the hero
But know I’m not the heroic kind.
I’m watching for a moment
To turn a blind eye;
Because maybe it’s heroic
To continue to cry.
Song of the day: Drowning, by Stabbing Westward.