fog

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I thought I was the ONLY one who heard that subtle and beautiful music. That I was the only one pouring the blood of my heart out—when words called upon words…I felt the tiny tingling touch of a pathetic child trying to run for the words of the other, wanting to touch you with equal substance and humor. But as each day passed by, a new bud of uncertainty always showed itself. I felt your words and my words moved away from the protected circle and found a new master to admire.

A lot of visitors visit you in your prison. They listen to you, they talk to you just like me…they understand you more than I understand you no matter how hard I try to hear with my own heart and listen with my own soul. And you…understand them…you admire them…you can hear them…you smile with that vicious fascination towards their understanding of you…and conversations between you and them have grown bigger in size and number…and I look at you…hurt…with jealousy…here in my prison…because you stop talking to me…stop listening to me…you no longer see me…perhaps my words and the music they play…no longer get to you…no longer touching your fingers…and so they break in silence.

So, I learned…not to reach you…I learned to stop reaching for your eyes…I learned to go back to my own prison…in the middle…so no walls or bars could touch my back or my hair…or my perfume…or you. Because I felt…jealous…little…unknown…unnamed…no one. I’m nobody around you and your listening, visiting, magical friends.

 

So, before more of this pride gets in my way I got myself a question: what’s this crying and helpless child doing …running around…for your attention? Just what am I doing? Dragging myself to you like an old piece of soiled clothes…expecting you could wash it clean for me…

then, maybe I started to realize that this kind of thing…burns you out…so you tend to look elsewhere for rest.

You and me…me and you…when words call upon words…ignore the music, the weight, the beauty that I just want the you and me to take care of with a new face, a new smile, a new shade—but in the end the lights shut off, the ink dries up and emptiness flows to me like tears dragging the bubbly feelings of a careful touch to wintry clouds…Didn’t we agree with you and me…me and you? But I feel that painting the walls to create symbolic messages, a code, a bible for you and me to see, for me to know and understand you and me…it left me… feeling anxious…undeserving…so dishonesty slowly eroded the surfaced soil to reveal that sense of nothingness between those words… and that engulfing emptiness rushed to me again like a giant storm surge…and I just…felt lost around you…and…me.

Jealousy gave me lips to bite in spite and anger. Doubt covered my eyes a fog… And emptiness…well, made me feel that I lost you…and me to you.

 

Can you still find me? Would we still look for us? Well, the fog isn’t clearing up. Please forgive me… I don’t want to misunderstand.

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6 thoughts on “fog

  1. what does a bird song do when it touches you? It becomes yours to cherish with deepest devotion and care. Would you say that everything is one? How strange it is that although everything is one, there are so many! What separates us though, is the same as what brings us together. A wall is not simply that which separates here from there, it rather the relationship… a wall has doors, windows… holes…
    Do you feel like a prisoner dear April? With such beautiful expression, I really think you are free… how lovely it is to see you soar… a bird among birds…

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    • Am I quick to assume then? That walls don’t have doors or windows and holes? The wall is the relationship itself. When a bird can’t find the door, or windows or holes leading to somewhere safe and peaceful, the bird flies in circles and just chirp and chirp out of fear. A bird in fear does not sing. It screams so that the rest can hear and find her. Perhaps, this idea is too old to remember. And no. I am not among those birds who come at men as they walk in the park. Perhaps, I’ll stay behind and wait for my turn. But I wonder if men were too weak to shoo the birds away. They’d probably think like they are shooing a piece of art and regrettably feel upset about it. But a woman like me wouldn’t care less for those random birds being shooed away if it meant an exclusive time for a man and a woman to spend with warmth and freedom.

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