Another Draft

blabber*****************

Another draft, another half-written, abandoned line of thought, a desperate need for cleansing, clarity. Like a whiff of frosty air, the blinding broad daylight, a cold shower, white color. Pure, unfettered. Devoid of chaos.

In circles I go–I know–I don't know—I know—I don't know–ripping dandelions till they scream, and I scream back at them. Fuck you, flower, how would you know? Huh? How are you to tell me who I am? What I am to do?

Torn apart, like the dandelion, in all directions. Too many things, scarce time, scarce focus, and energy. A sign of a scattered mind, in lack of unity, that which pulls it all together towards a certain end. It dwindles down there in chambers–my soul on a hook–hanging from the ceiling.

No voices reach it there, only music, and so it swings to the beats and rhythms, sending salty drops up the drainage, drying out before they reach the outlet. And so the message vanishes.

I turn my eyes inside out, stare down the drainage, looking for it, the message, but it's nowhere to be found. I squeeze, crawl and kick my way down the pipes, wondering when they began to desertify, begging for the tears to come, so I can feel the relief after my soul is off the hook. When did life abandon me? When did I lose myself?

Regression and progression, after regression, after progression. "Finally, I arrive– ah, fuck."

In circles we go, and I am fucking dizzy. Can I just put up my feet for a sec and watch the sun go down rushing nowhere? Take a moment to think where I am, who I am, and where I am going?

I sit down, surprised by how heavy my body is, and how heavy it must've been carrying it all this way. How worn out my clothes are, and how the bathroom floor needs scrubbing. My lower back hurts. Am I getting old or too bold?

Open your heart, while keeping your distance, while detaching, while admiring from afar, while standing close, while laying in arms. And as you lay in arms of another, you wonder what your own hug feels like. I take a puff of my pipe.

None of this matters if you lose yourself on the way. I remind myself. None, not one, nothing. So how do I keep my soul at bay while I harden my heart? How do I keep it soft from inside, while it's charred to a crisp from the outside?

I press the brush against my gums, scrubbing them like I should've the floor. Rushing somewhere, perhaps, to forget what I am trying to remember. "Breathe. What if you brush the teeth of your little boy or girl one day. Are you going to make their gums bleed, too? No? Why treat us this way?"

I sigh, drop the brush in the sink and lean on it, looking in the mirror. "Who are you trying so desperately to be? Why is this not good enough? Weren't we so 'on the same page'?

Sometimes it takes all the strength I have to feel normal.

I find comfort reading Jung and Dostoevsky, and Nietzsche, pointing at the transcendent light which penetrates into my chamber; no; it blasts the door open and takes my soul off the hook.

Yet I have read little lately. My bed is calling out to me.

Which of the voices do I listen to? Which of them is right? What do I put on top, and what do I take down? Or am I perhaps too small in character, too weak to make the right choice? Is that why I float in chaos, in indecision?

Someone's knocking.

"It's pain."

"I figured."

"Can I come in?"

"Please do, I can't anymore."

"Uhm, it's locked."

"What, who locked it?" my soul looks for someone to blame.

A little boy, looking back at my soul, shaking his head, holds on tight to the key. And, in his eyes, terror.

"Come here little one, give me the key."

"Nuh-uh," he says, and runs off into the labyrinth of pipes. Yes, that's the shape of me, dried out, neverending, drainage pipes.

I sigh, take a puff of my pipe. Time to go to work. I don't like my job. That's my fault too.

"Fuck, I missed the sunset," I say aloud and smirk bitterly, cleaning my pipe. "How many more am I going to 'miss'?"

Hang in there, soul & boy, I'll come and get you, after I am done with the next next thing. After I am done making excuses and do what is necessary. After I finally mature to be a man, that you can trust with your key.

Why I am rushing? Because I am in pain, and can't find the key, chasing my little boy down dry pipes.

Why I am smoking? You know. My bathroom floors need scrubbing.