the devil's hands are idle play things

i am afraid of those creatures that make the searing, screeching sound by day. 
they are silent by night, but still, they are there. 
no one notices. 
no one says anything. 
i am afraid to ask what they are; what if no one else can hear them?
i am not from this place. 

but will knowing change anything?
a name to a sound, a name to research, a name to curse silently in the day. knowing solves nothing. 

perhaps it is my own mind screeching. crying out. devil in my brain, hell bent on a sneaky destruction that wraps silently around my heart and squeezes. 
i can feel it beating so fast sometimes. i imagine it is trying to escape the devil but is attached to too much. must i sever my organs to be free?

my spiral has many arms. it is a galaxy with too many pin pricks of light. is it ours? it follows no physics but its own. 

the mind has no constrictions, which it, naturally, takes full advantage of. 

i spiral down until i crumple on the floor, strings of panics surging out of my mouth towards L. She tries to reign them in, but my mind is too stubborn, too strong. 

i take pills. go under the blanket. breathe, smoke, breathe, smoke again until i am dumb and lurching and wrapping myself up in L's warmth. i have tears but i don't want them. they solve nothing. 

well. enough of that. 

there is no one to save us. 

the devil is, in essence, my own mind.

the world, bored, doesn't care, continues on.
every pause means more running. 

so. braid it up, tuck it back in. that is what the sulci of the brain are for, after all. the wailing wall. i may be still wailing but mine's nearly full. 

but who cleans up the folded prayers when there are too many, and what is done with them? 

a thing written a while ago

i want to stretch worlds with my elbows and vomit sunshine, but you already knew that. 

i make pretty words and you think i'm saying something new. 

you know it is that i don't recognise my thousand angles. you were the first to believe. 

why can't i find you in my sleep?

why can't i slip through the world and find you, sitting there, find everyone who is sitting there, in the mud in the grass in their house?

i feel the impressions of the earth. i see with my heart. 

i cannot feel you across continents and sestra, i need you to tell me how i feel. 
only you can't of course, because you're you. 
i suppose i feel for the two of us. you my voice and i your heart. conjoined twins. they split us at the neck. 
you know that old story of the woman with the green ribbon?
within that story lies our secret. 

rough draft

where have i been?
why have i forgotten this fabulous place that exists out of time and space and is made of words and pictures?

to tell the truth, i have been afraid. 

i feel too much. it is too much to find words for. 
or rather, it's too hard to find words for. 
which is just another definition of cowardly, isn't it, though.

all right. let's clear the air. 

i've been floating in the ether, just waiting. catatonic since March. my fate will be decided at an indeterminate time by undetermined people who may or may not have actually met me. 
in the mean time i wait. 
and i lie under the duvet. 
and i periodically i have to talk about it which causes further retreat. sometimes tears. i can't always get my stories straight. 

my self is eroding. 

if it was ever there to begin with. i have entirely too much time on my hands which leads to, of course, existentialism and a general shiftiness about being alive. 

i have, apparently, too many blog posts built up inside from the past 6 months that i just want to vomit out here, but i don't do that any more. 

i don't write that well any more, but we'll see about that. i need to come back here and not not-eat the feels. 

maybe there is something in the ether to hold on to. 
maybe it's just my own feet, but hey, that's something.