it's wonderful how nostalgia, when done right, can draw us to recall the past with tender undertones and eventually inspire us to stash away certain periods of our lives with calm hearts and clear minds. the fondest of memories, we could choose to have only those. i choose to keep only those with you.

the rains have just fizzled out tonight but the cold, damp air remains...enough motive to lament the unavailability of someone to snuggle up with. on another day, self-pity and loneliness would have been recurrent emotions, but today, i'm weirdly doing alright, quite blissful in fact. all's well. and i'm scaling the heights of the world again.

today, I am solitary as well, relinquishing company for the calmness of thought and heart, Fiona Apple singing in the background how it costs too much to love . . .

Chipped

Now, as I gaze upon myself, I realize that every moment, I’ve been chipping away at my heart.

Where it enclosed you from all around, impermeable, I’ve gouged sections therefrom. Each piece I peel off yields a corresponding yowl in my being, and a gaping vacuum in time’s interlocking hands. This I bear with the might of the weak, the optimism of one who lacks foresight, yet with the authority of a tyrant’s obstinate heart: for this, because this is, I love you more. Nothing could be simpler. It is the earth upon which Euclid’s axioms brace their feet. It is the wind that scares away the ghosts feeding off the green of leaves.

When all this is done, and calm reigns again, our hands would have made sense of time’s brittleness. Our eyes would have regained the clarity once, now, ransomed by distance’s irreverence to love.

solitude

i never imagined that i would live without anticipation, without the exhilaration that comes from living, for something. living for something. prophesies mock me with the insides of my optimism, hollow, helpless.i see, and detest my feet. i walk, and abhor my eyes. to learn to become the sun, to be, simply, just by being a routine. to bathe the world in light, without feeling.

i am my friend. i am my emptiness.

my footsteps are graveyards for smiles, for meaning, for warmth. these slide off of me, after having risen to my throat or my eyes and finding no one there to juggle them with. you won't believe how solitary i've become. asking no questions, giving no answers. dreaming, but only in reminiscence. some days, i neglect to bring myself wherever i may go. sometimes i leave myself on my bed, curled up with an immaterial grime.

and when i come home, i tell myself of the graveyards, of the sun and the darkness outside, of words and thoughts divorced, and in general, of the immitigable flatness of solitude. and i would shiver and toss while i listen, wondering which of me would outlive the other, which of me would yield to the wind and become meaningless altogether.