My body lies still in sleep, unlike my insecure soul. My dreams carry weight; they are the leaves after the autumn downpour, so common nobody stops to stare, but to each tree it feels like a lead weight just shifted onto the branches, making each leaf cry out in turn:
“It’s now the time for my colors to bleed,
Coerced into the season of letting go.
Embrace this slumber that takes us together
Into this living death we welcome as home.”
I’m not soaking in the sun anymore; the light dissipates faster and faster and comes later and later, and my back feels a little bit heavier with each passing night left hoping for the sun and living with the knowledge that it’s going to take longer today to see it than the day before. My time feels insanely short, like it’s skipping the even numbers on the clock, like the “tick” is not followed by the customary “tock”, and so somebody must be stealing my time.
~Or maybe you’re just done stalling…~
Disconnect; that’s the issue, so he can’t feel okay because he can’t connect the thought of “okay” with the corresponding emoticon on his smartphones obtusely glaring screen. The mask that he wears remains a deceitful facade; He is neither a hero nor villain, his dreams not so grandiose as to require such lofty titles. He is simply a loser who lost his own face in the crowd, so now even as he searches for some hint of recognition, every mirror becomes a window into a stranger’s world.
~Because seeing the pain from an outside perspective lets him pretend that pain isn’t his own…~