I SEE STAINS
,..
While, in rhythm, the sound replaces my heartbeat, a distant echo reaches me, a tear, the past.
DISTANT ECHO.
cotton wool.
when I think of cotton wool, I think of cotton in the ears, I think of a wax plug, I think of substantive tinnitus.
This time the warm and familiar hiss comes from beyond the mountains, where a valley plays with frequencies.
It plays with getting high on the last snow, on the path to extinction.
A TEAR,
it's just salty water.
Crying out of anger doesn't console you, crying out of sadness doesn't comfort you, crying out of happiness is not my thing; I cry inside.
It must be this excessive slowness that pains me while, here lying on an unmade bed, I can fall asleep and flutter my eyelashes only to keep them tightly shut.
I have a willful depression and I would like to be extinguished with icy water.
THE PAST.
It must be that dust still intact in the industrial area of my internal apparatus, must be the neurons playing intermittently, translating the language of feelings into comprehensible images.
A rhythm that smelled of rotten tomatoes, a piece of wood with a nail too protruding, a hole in the cement from where I could see the art education classroom, a courtyard of tiny almost spherical pebbles where the soccer goals were under the stairs, and the ball a pinecone.
All of this is in the oblivion of existence, uniquely of mine. My universe has a black hole at its center that continues to eat and gather things, assigning them to a place so remote that imagining it destroys me.
Loading comments slowly