Afterlife

Last night I dreamed of death.

I was shot. I didn't feel pain... only moments fleeting. I didn't feel my last breath. Only the sudden awareness of something lifting off of my body. Maybe this is what they call the soul. I couldn't tell where I was going but it didn't look like heaven or hell. It was just a vast expanse of nothing. It wasn't dark... it was blue. It wasn't the sky, there were no stars. I could feel my true form... crooked lips and bulkier eyes. I was bouncing in the air... I could see but I couldn't speak.

They say your entire life flashes before your eyes when you die. I didn't see anything. My death was seamless. It didn't feel any different to me except that I couldn't touch anyone. I was just there... an entity that could still go anywhere, do whatever. The clock hadn't moved any faster.

I didn't feel hunger, I didn't feel thirst, I didn't feel the want for human touch. I didn't desire the pleasures of the flesh. I was feeling just as I would feel on a normal Monday morning when nobody would be around me.

It didn't feel like it was the end. Death just felt like... life. My life.

Inside

How does it feel to live someone else's memory? To see what they saw? To feel what they felt? How does it feel when all their emotions seep into you? The agony, the exhaustion, the frustration, the pure unadulterated joy?

I didn't know I could feel this close to someone. I didn't know you could actually see things through someone else's eyes. Turns out you can.

When go walk long enough, you reach a place beyond which words have little or no meaning. In this place you can only talk with your eyes. Often, you're alone in this place. But if you're lucky enough... someone who can hear you will be walking with you.

I don't know if there's anyone out there walking with me. But I know I have heard one voice. I have felt unsaid feelings.

I'm certain it won't happen but I know that I'll keep walking until that someone decides to turn around and see me.

And that's all

There are no lines that I can write
When there's nothing left to say
When clouds are hanging in the night
And they disappear by the day

There is no song that I can sing
When the words have all gone dry
And all the notes have lost their ring
Like a wolf's anguished cry

There is no pain that I can feel
When my heart is good as dead
And I can't feign smiles like they're real
I'd rather cry instead

But there are these eyes that will betray
All the memories that I hid away

Cluttered mind in a cluttered body

You probably shouldn't read this post if you already think I am nuts. If you don't you shouldn't read it anyway because you will soon think that I'm nuts.

OK you've decided to read this then... don't hate me and don't say I didn't warn you :-|

Sometimes when I look at the sea of faces that I am surrounded with, I feel like I don't belong. Everything is superficial. When I see a thousand people walk, I see thousand stories. They walk like puppets. I feel like a puppet too sometimes. I feel like there are invisible strings attached to our bodies... someone is tugging at them, controlling what I should do, what I should think and feel. I fight this "puppeteer" all the time. But I don't think a lot of people do. Everybody just wants to tolerate everything. Be a witness but never testify to anything. KNOW that something isn't right but push that feeling so far back into their heads that it doesn't resurface at all... So they can live without guilt, without remorse, without tension.

Why do people discuss other people? Isn't there enough for a person to ponder about one's own self? About the vastness of the labrynth that this universe is... about how you *know* that you're part of that labrynth but you can't place yourself save your life? Why are thoughts limited to things that are direct, empirical? Isn't there anything left to feel beyond our senses of touch, sight, taste, smell and sound? Why can't everyone just be content with their own conscience? Why weigh and measure that of the others?

I just must be going insane but I don't care because I'd rather be insane than a puppet with a head made of wood.

The Ocean

I wonder if the ebb and flow
Of the Ocean's tides
Is how she sighs and lets go
Of grave secrets she hides

She knows of ancient lores of kings
She knows of broken hearts
And everyday her waters sing
Tales men cannot tell apart

And when I cried to her one day
I knew with me she'd cried
Her solemn wave rose to the bay
And fell gently by my side

Now when I pick up seashells
I often hear strange wails
Like forgotten, arcane spells
That unfold the Ocean's tales

Silent Night

Another night falls
And as my last cigarette is put out
Another lone star shines in the sky
And a single tear escapes my eye
Another time I sleep alone
On my empty bed, cold as stone.

A song from the grave

I am but a drifting cloud in the sky
I am but a blade of grasss
I am but a teardrop in a blind man’s eye
I am but a broken piece of glass

I am but a grain of desert sand
I am but a whisper of the wind
I am but a forgotten gypsy band
I am but a loveless soul that never twinned

I am but a lonely house in the bare tree
I am but a ring in a church bell
I am but a low tide in the deep sea
I am but a leaf that withered and fell

I am but a sad song they sing along with
I am but a ghost you can’t see
I am but a lost, forlorn myth
I am but a memory.