Wavering in the past, the present, the future and the imagination

What is the planet? What is the world? What is the solar system? What is this life? What are these intakes of breath, billion upon billions of them, every day?  What are the colours? What is the sky? What are the lives and the thoughts and the beating hearts? Who are they beating for – what are they beating for? What is the mind, what is the soul; what is psychological pain? What is sadness when it is heavy like rocks, what is joy when it lifts you to the edge of the universe? What is a journey, what are these words, why am I writing, why are you reading? How does your brain work – isn’t It beautiful? Isn't the way your fingers bend and the way you blink fascinating, the way your toes quiver, the way your insides squirm. The way no knowledge will ever be enough, the way we wonder and wonder. What is my purpose? My goal? My belief? I am intrinsically linked to the point of restlessness with something that I cannot comprehend. I’ve struck a chord in some dimension that no one even knows about. My life is spent wavering in the past, the present, the future and the imagination; spent half in mind and half in action, questioning things more than anyone could know. Thinking of things and feeling hopelessness, because as humans, it’s hard sometimes not to feel hopelessness when we’ve been presented with life, following each other, leading it, accepting it, and not questioning it. It shakes me, like a harrowing storm, to think so deep; ‘tis safer to stay on dry land: “life’s more painless, for the brainless.” But my mind, she has a mind of her own; I am filled with craziness; everything I touch, like skittles, turns to something odd, something strange, something perhaps ruined. Ruined in the eyes of the beholder, blundering my way through life, wondering if ever I will grasp what is to me an understanding. But we, as human, as simple masters of ourselves and yet brainless, stupid, insignificant nothings, created this word “understanding.” We placed letters together; we learned the concept; we shared the concept. But how is it a word, when understanding does not exist? Everything that you know, that you think you know, is not real. Potentially, none of this is real. None but pain, because that is blinding yet enlightening to the point where it can never fail, walking hand in hand with fear and hate to destroy us all. I have faith in humanity, yet I weep for humanity…I fail to “understand” humanity. I fail to understand myself, or what it is that we plan to do, to enjoy, to cry, to weep, to die. To keep on moving forward, ‘til tears have been shed for eternity, babies have been born ‘til the end of time and things have shifted beyond anything we in this snapshot of time, of this thing we call time, could know. Time, time, time, you slip away, you leave us; where do you go? Is there an intergalactic storage centre in the core of nature, of natural comprehension, where the time goes? Does it frolic amongst meadows, does it sing, does it feel emotion? Is it like sand from a sand timer; will we run out of it, before we run out of air? How do you explain things such as time which are real and fundamental but do not truly exist? How to define what it is to spend time, like it is currency, something you can own. No one owns time, time is unownable; time is in itself a Houdini, a terrific performer; an escapist. I’m taking your time, taking it, right now; as if time can be taken, as if time can be told. As if time has been old and young and born and shall die again. Where am I going with this? That’s not the question, for it seems we have no destination; the word destination is just as made up, just as fake, as what it represents. As false as our metaphors, as our similes, of our allusions. A hopeless destination: perhaps I should be filled with utter gloom, perhaps you’re feeling now like I have overstepped the mark; I have questioned too much. But there is no gloom; there is no need for comprehension, or destination. Enjoy the colours, the sky, the emotion, the air, the time, the feelings that shake your soul, the actions that clear your mind, the movements that evoke thought and happiness. Contentment is in those that accept defeat in all understanding and just wonder, and feel joy in something that is entirely out of reach. World - you are truly wonderful. 

You have nothing to say and I have no one to blame

Tears, like tiny spheres of crystal, are falling from your perfect white face. This was never meant to happen. I want to put my hands around your neck, press my mouth to your throat and tell you that everything will be fine - but why lie? I can see it, in the dark dim reflection of those hazel eyes of yours. You're frightened, frightened of me and what's going to happen, frightened of the future ahead. And I'm hurting you, as sure as stabbing a knife between your perfect shoulders and twisting it around and around. The hot blood is spilling over my fingers now, I can see that...but what can be done?

Tell me, what can I do? I put my arm around your tiny waist and drag you closer to me, your warm breath against my cheek. I feel calmer for having done so, but at the same time I feel more terrified than ever. My hands are shaking – I need to leave you alone. This was never meant to happen. You don't belong to me, you never did. I run a tentative hand through your soft brown hair and almost angrily wipe the tears from your face with my trembling fingers. I don't want them to be there, because they are my fault. This was all my fault, don't you see? You blame yourself, but had you never met me, never known me, none of this would have ever happened.

I just never thought I'd care about you. But standing there, leaning against me, your slender arms wrapped around my God forsaken shoulders, you are everything. I care about nothing more in the entire world than just protecting you. You have nothing to say, and I have no one to blame...what a pair we are. Inseparable, but yet we repel each other like pole to pole magnets. I cup your chin and delicately kiss the top of your head; it's now my turn to cry.

Our future, our beautiful future, destroyed by everything, smashed to pieces by our very society. I should leave you now, leave you before we both get killed, but your beauty is like a drug. I have to stay, even just to keep my eyes on your face and know that you were real, and that I didn't just dream you up. You are tense, and your face looks older than it did a week ago. You have aged in this time...this has taken things from you that can never be replaced. And it's all my fault.