Existential Crisis

You close your eyes and think particles are blind, you shut your mouth and act deaf. You exist; you are in a room that is. There is a universe in your mind. There is a supernova on your neck. Necked from the Big Bang. There is a black hole in your lisp. In your speech, space fulminates. In your spine, mortals live and mortals die. Stars illuminate inside your chest. 

Manumitted by a first breath, life injected in the cells; behold lessening the jolts. Behold learning the crypts.

You swim. You land. You eject a second breath. Tattooing fingerprints on your children's foreheads. And then you walk, carving footprints on the seabed for meteorites to trace. 

We found hearts in a cleft. The clefts made a stream. The streams we wrecked, until our shadows became streaks. Conversed by smiles that spoke of engravers. We felt what no other creature could feel; tribe is safety, hunt is stability, loss is thirst. Home is circular and beasts are slaves.

We fought over land and game but still you remained under my skin —in the bones: free radical, wild and intangible, unrooted and disputant. I hinged on the mountains and you left like a fortune teller with not much for a luck. Floating on self-destruct. Traded your crystal ball with the globe, books with papercuts, lovers with stains. Loaded your pen-pencil with leads, and wrote me mechanical.

My people wandered Earth for water, and gulped down the seaside. My people are seasick. My people, their knees bleed on the plants lurking in the sunrise. My people, they shred the lands, wondering whose good is better. But only you know that insistence is good enough and resistance can keep you alive.

The world is our playground: valleys are slides when destruction is erupted. A tide is grace if you keep from drowning. Glazed eyes fool what the mind can already feel.

You are a billet for bullets lost and dutiful.

And it's beautiful how foggy and misprinted your eyes can be. And it struck me that you were as oblivious as I thought you would be. But blueprints cannot be read by no expert.

My alibi is all that I've been dreaming of; angels doing handstands and bobbing their heads to punk rock and that was nowhere near healthy. And I might be guilty for the emptiness inside me but yeah whatever.

The sun heat is like waking up to shrapnel and duds in your bed.

My problem is that you are my own presence. And I can't be there without you roaming my spectrum. All I think of is influenced by all I think of you.

These days, you cross my mind like any simple thought, even though I thought we weren't supposed to think about each other anymore.

You were never able to stain me; you just taught me to say what I think and scribe what you say. You turned my day into night while the night was still a night and you promised me an armor that would bring the Sun to its feet. And that we'd flee this world whenever our chances was to clear out of this dome and pray that our friends would pray for us too.

But you are not like your friends and I am not like my friends and I don't know why we insist on calling them friends when obviously they would leave us alone with our migraines under the steamy sand that stand for the dirt we've racketed.

The soil that is lavished with its generosity to give birth to trees that can only converse with the rain. There's a reason trees don't grow near the sea.

It is all a ballad of shaky handshakes and sweaty palms holding unto each other like flood and pulse is the ark. 

People like us pretend to wear their pride like dignity that hangs on rooftops and trips on full stops.

Hands like yours remain like photographs which remind me that my forever is just not yours and that we both are finite.

Right then, I knew I was breathless but I was lunging. I was longing, for a walk that could calm me down but could also keep me ignited because peace was drifting and I didn't want to drift away from myself.

But now? Right now, I feel so little. And so young. And so naive. But I am little. I am young. And I am naive. I stress my words where my worlds end: when I just can't speak, even if I try to sugarcoat all what I've written.

So, I stop writing. And I clear my throat, ready for something I'm unprepared for. And so it is attacked and it's gouged by the ticking of my wristwatch.

This is how to live when it's the possibilities that guide you to where you belong.