This winter is no longer just a season,
It is the perpetual setting of my mind.

Conversations With Myself.

Put yourself,

Before your faith.

Put yourself,

Before me.

Is it because you are alone under this blanket? Is it because you do not touch your own skin, for your cold fingertips might shock you? Something is steadily slipping by you, the onset of age, the passing of an experience you might miss out on. If only you could be aware of the million opportunities you posses all at once, and take them all, at the same time. Wouldn't that be wonderful? To know you've never made the mistake of choosing the incorrect answer. Yet you cannot, and your beating heart must once again be cajoled into silence. 

"Yes, I'm afraid.

Of what? Of myself. Of what tomorrow might bring. Will I be able to cope with the waves of turbulence throwing my world into disarray? I know, I must let go of the old, embrace the new and not heed the conscience that tells me otherwise. But I can no longer pretend to avoid eye contact with society. I can no longer hold a poker face while my friends and family recede into the giant wall of grey behind me"

This music is dulling your senses, and these pictures only make you wistful. Do you want to pervade into to the garish pixels of the computer screen and pull at those faces till they're distorted to the satisfaction of your vanity? Yet you can only sigh and silently curse them under your breath for gifts they were born with, ones which you were never even offered. You wonder if before your before your birth, cosmic beings deliberated upon the exactitude of your appearance, and if so, whether they had a personal vendetta against an unborn child. You chuckle, but not so loudly  as to disrupt the unattractive yet peculiarly ambiance elevating sound of snoring. Unfinished conversations pressure you to cease pondering and you wish you had someone to love, right there and then, under a pretentious blanket of real wool, under a pretentious sky made up of allegedly real stars you cannot see. So you turn over to your side and sleep, hoping thoughtless will wake you in the morning.

You cannot lay here,

Beseeching your own mind.

You cannot stay here,

Forever.

I'll draw Nazca lines across my heart,
So even from the sky your words can be read,
"There were no random reasons to love you,
There are no reasons for anything.", you said.

Worn

You enter through my mouth,
And exit through my soul,
darling, you're wearing me thin.
Like the garment you wore eve before last,
You're wearing me thin.

Push at the back of my throat.
Down into my stomach,
churning in my gut,
like masses singing choir songs,
in the temple of regret.

I'm knocking on your door,
like I'm knocking at your ego,
Inviting myself in, because i'm looking for love tonight.
I'm knocking on the pavement,
Like I'm knocking at myself,
losing self respect.
Because I was looking for love tonight.

Enter through my mouth,
and exit through my soul,
darling, you're wearing me thin.
Like those scraping noises in the gutter,
you're wearing me thin.

Cement, Six Buildings, Circles.

Everything he touched was cold. Winter had penetrated all and nothing around him, freezing every last bit of warmth into a clear, sharp cold. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, clenching and unclenching his fingers to heat them with some blood flow. He had never imagined winters to be this way. They were always portrayed as beautiful, white snow-capped scenery with people in pretty winter coats and scarves, laughing and playing in frozen solitude. Instead, he found it out to be dry, harsh, with a searing sense of reproach toward anyone who dared to stand before it. The winds that escaped into the collar of his jacket were edged and they hacked at his skin, making him shiver like he had been immersed in cold water. It was lonely too. He’d been walking in circles for over 2 hours around the same 6 buildings, shuffling his feet over cement, hugging himself tighter with every passing minute. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, pushed against the winds. His body only wanted to be inside again, his mind however, refused to comply. Every now and then, he’d sneeze making his entire body convulse into a jittering bag of bones. But he kept on walking. There was something so hateful in that weather that translated his self-loathing for him. He need not despise himself; the seasons were doing it for him.  Something bitter stirred inside his mind, something to match the lack of warmth in the air. He wanted to be home so bad. He only wanted to climb into his double bed under his window that let in the sun and birdsong each morning. He closed his eyes for a moment, and sought the sun’s yellow light. First there was nothing, his mind was dark and blank. Then slowly a shimmer of pale light convalesced into a bright burning yellow fire.

He opened his eyes slowly. The pasty cream coloured ceiling patched and burnt was the background of his focus. The periphery of his vision was sparkling bright. Turning his head he noticed everything was tainted golden sepia. He heard birds! It was morning, he smiled. He was oddly aware that his entire body looked golden. Rolling his eyes to the back of his head, he was blinded by the light filtering in from the window, onto his hair, his face, his body and what he believed, his soul too. He had no memory of his dreams, but was certain they’d been pleasant. He rose slowly and deliberately enjoying the awakening of his muscles and bones. His favourite sheets slithered off his legs, his favourite painting hung on the wall to his right, and the table before him was just as chaotic as he’d left it. Stretching in bed, he yawned and closed his mouth in a goofy grin, not different from the ones he’d seen make as a child in photographs. He felt ready to start a new day and hopped off the bed. He rushed to his door and swung it open. He grinned again. The dining room was flooded with that gorgeous golden light; it made even the dullest object sparkle. He smelt food on the table and guessed there was even more food to come. He ran into the kitchen and hugged whatever figure stood in front of the stove from behind.  He clutched it tightly and murmured his thanks. There was no response. Something felt out of place about his. He stepped back to get a proper view of whom he’d hugged. It wasn’t mother, it wasn’t anything at all. There was no one there. Then whom had he hugged? He heard his lover call from the living room. Thoughts of his mystery mother dissipated and rushed to the other end of the house, smiling idiotically once again. He heard echoes of his name, and teasing laughter which he followed mechanically. The voice led him to the drawing room and then stopped. He looked frantically around the room and saw nobody. On the table in front of him was a crystal ashtray, with a half lit cigarette breathing wisps of smoke into the room, one glowing end flashing red, orange, yellow and then black.  Something rose and fell in his chest. He fell silent and walked out the front door.

The road was paved with dried leaves, bold blocks of sunburnt orange that crunched underneath his feet. As he walked, he passed under the shadow of a tree, temporarily banishing the bright glow on his skin. As he passed out from under the shadow, the glow did not return. He looked up and saw the sun had concealed itself in astonishingly grey clouds. He looked back down at the tar and kept on walking. He could not remember how much time had passed when he looked up again, it was cold now, and he was back where he had begun; cement, six buildings, circles. He clutched himself for a minute and stopped. He closed his eyes again, concentrating hard.

 A minute later he opened them and looked around:

Cement, six buildings, circles.

Call It What You Want.

Who is he to question or admonish him?

He who holds him tight, are only his hands.

He who cradles him, is only his ghost.

Who are you to defend his reality for him?

Who is she to tell him he is naked when he cries?

Only when his soul is drained, he cannot speak.

Only when he is pampered, he is lonely.

Who are you to measure his flesh, in that kind?

Who were they to push his buttons in summer?

Can he not speak and be heard at the same time?

Can he not hold up a mirror to the sun, and shine?

Who are you to colour his eyes a dirty brown?

Who is he, to hold him in gratitude now and forever?

He does not carry a heart on his bloodstained sleeve.

He does not carry his shoes on his shoulders either.

Who are you, to provoke him into being beautiful?

Who are you to question and answer for him at all?

He doesn’t begin with a favour, and end in a paradox.

He doesn’t write your name on his pillow every night.

Who are you to vitiate his existence, by talking about it?

The Cold, It's Killing Me

If I cry and give out altogether, turn to nothing.
Will it be enough for you to hold me again?

I can't hear my own soul screaming anymore.
I can't hear my own voice beating me anymore.

If I jump off this cliff down into my conscience,
Will you be swimming there, waiting to catch me?

I can't see my own face in the mirror anymore.
I can't feel my toes on the ground anymore.

It's getting too grey to breathe.