le vide du vide
i am points
suspended mid air
i am but a mere collection
of vaguely constructed memories
there used to be a line connecting
this lump of human behavior
straining a pattern
from the lukewarm blob
of mediocre human experiences
but now all i am
is mix of too many patterns
and too many anomalies
a cluster of everything
reducing to nothing of significance
i am losing pieces of myself
faster than kilograms
in a depressive episode
the mirrors don’t know what to reflect
i dreamt of this
strange man
–
he notices me
he wants me
–
i’m not confused;
there’s only ebbing desire in between our eyes
and it’s easy
i talked to myself way
too much today
i tried to find my way
through
tears
and
anger
and
confusion
i had to bury
you
today
i had to
plant faith
instead
i had to believe
that if this was meant to be
i would find a way back to you
the right way
that i didn’t need to stress
over how much i’ve lost
to you
that i needed to let myself breathe
that i forgave myself for what i let happen
and that it was turn
to forgive you
because i know
you meant no harm
mistakes aside,
i have faith
if the terminal stop
is this
then there must be another way
there must be a railway that
either ends at your feet
or simply parallel to yours
in any case,
i know my tracks
are straightened
that any train that treads across
will be the right one
because i know
i believe
in something that is more wholesome
than one moment of regret
flipping from side to side
my mother always compares the hectic process
of mild insomnia
to the grilling of a fish.
as she lays in bed,
she is constantly being flipped from side to side
by some force
and if you have the image of that half-blacked fish in your mind
you’d understand how accurate
her comparison strikes me.
for it is no longer painful,
it is past the point of pain
just like the grilling
is past the point of the struggle with death,
and the movement of both,
fish and self,
being involuntary,
necessary,
and a process that can only be underwent
to climax
and to fall apart completely
in a white vision of sleep
(which barely feels like sleep)
every morning i am strong and willful
but by the time the day comes
and i see the blurred features
of your face in the distance
something within my soul withers away
as i let my mind elope to this unforeseen end.
neither love nor lust
something melts within me
and i still cannot find the words to describe
the process by which i am slowly being radicalized
against the idea of you;
something so simple has become altogether confounding.
for the first time self awareness and analysis do not help me,
for the first time i am alone
in this feeling.
so alone that i can barely
write;
so alone
that i am afraid of losing this
before i can even understand it.
— what if the only way i know love is through confusion?
Eyeballs hurt so much I cannot sleep
I wake up with a fever,
I’m reminded I’m only made of failures and pain,
mediocre and meaningless,
I want to cry all the time
Cairo and I don’t get along anymore
it’s actually just me
I don’t go along with myself
my skin itches again
why can’t I scratch my eyeballs out of their sockets and let
it all
bleed
maybe I’d find meaning then
(but there isn’t meaning, there never was)
pervasive thoughts haunt my dreams
and I wake up screaming
why can’t I see myself in the mirror
why does my head feel so heavy upon my shoulders
layers of pain
colors of being
confused, still
her name was
half the story
i barely knew her
but i was attracted to her.
attracted
that word is too vague to imply sexuality or even confusion
i was attracted to people’s thoughts, intellect, and
passion
quite frequently.
did i doubt who i was?
who i liked?
(yes)
would i act on it?
(no)
simply because i
do not act.
i am merely a combination of well-organized thoughts;
an archive.
i liked her, a lot.
(and that was the end of that story)
i don’t think i can be
a significantly
bad
or a significantly
good
person;
i’m barely
a person
I love the taste of cherries.
Their strong stems and their swollen seeds.
Their color and their glimmer.
Like a reflecting ever-strong shield.
I never liked the daisies.
Ever since The Great Gatsby.
I fell out of love with roses.
When I realized I was taught nothing
about the remaining flower population
but color and scent.
I love the taste of cherries.
But their season here only lasts a month.
I guess the daisies are pretty.
I just need to stop remembering Fitzgerald’s narrative
of a character with the same name.
The daisies are everywhere
all year round.
They all think I should go around collecting daisies
rather than sit back sucking on my cherries.
But I love the taste of cherries.
And I don’t want to go liking daisies too much
for the fear they’ll make me forget
how all year round
I keep sucking at my taste buds
for the remaining taste
of cherries.
After 11pm everything seems like a blur.
Your name is a pixelated image on my screen, I don’t recognize the reason I dialed your number. I’m pretty sure of how desperate I will sound trying to mend something for too long a time, longer than the time I took to create it.
Our tree once a seed, once a prime, once flowering with cherry blossoms, is now only a pile of dirt, it is not even rotting or dying, it is far gone into oblivion. But I still remember.
The oath I once took, “this will not be the same as every other time,” no convince yourself, yes “you are different.” But it wasn’t, not at all. And the only string of differentiation was how you held so tightly, how you wouldn’t after years, forget the moments and memories. But time sweeps away not only dust but glow.
And it is hard to keep remembering the one thing everyone is trying to make you forget. Everyone else has moved on, you are just a child stuck in the intermittent stage of nothing. Still standing so clueless in the middle of your naive confusion, “was it not love?”
You are nothing but a plethora of intensity, you are not love.
beyond 