Drive My Car

Drive My Car ★★★★★

i hear her, 
on the other side of this wall,
waiting for the birds to fly overhead,

yet here they are,
right before my feet,
trapped in their lifeless state

of existence.

i can feel, through this wall, a smile,
one so broad, so full,
that the whole world would weep,
if given the chance to feel it
in full.

••••

last week, i stepped around the corner,
peering my eyes past the sign that reads: 

beware,
those who fear the truth should refrain from…

(it ends there)

and edging my gaze slowly around that corner which, for so long, has been left ignored, as though it were the face of all that had gone by, forgotten,

i saw what i had known would cause fear,
what i had slowly come to terms with
(from the entrapment of my own side),
yet still (still) i had feared it like a monster under the bed, like a failure of judgment,
like a hammer to the brain.

you weren’t 
                     there.

i called out to you time after time, endlessly - in fact,
but you weren’t there.

all that stood between me and… 
was darkness. 

darkness was all that had prevailed.

where have you gone? 
why have you left me here alone?
why am i asking myself all these unanswerable questions?

perhaps you never existed…

••••

i have decided to recite reality as i see it:

a gaping wound opens before us, shredding apart all the work that has gone towards healing. i thought that we would find freedom here, here in this silent place, so far away from all else:

yet it is this silence, this wonderful, tranquil silence, that has drawn us apart.

i know that this wall (and perhaps you lie on the opposite side) had not been part of the equation, but now we must make the most of our predicament. look, look at me, wherever you are, 

look at me.

here i stand, a beast, a figure of all the imperceptibly uninterpretable dreams, the mirror image of all that these garish glories can ignite. 

but so what if i tend to border upon that which may seem ostentatious to many: 

you see beyond that farce, 
                                               that unhinged reality.

••••

and to think that i believed i could do it, 
that i could walk these silent paths,
unlined and unseen, covered by a bleak darkness that seems never to end,
and reach the end,

the end that had been my beginning.

today was spent laughing, laughing at the thought of you, here, standing, watching me burn away slowly as i tear apart the last shreds of my shirt, pissing tears from my eyes like my life were just about ending,

that it were ending, and i hadn’t yet completed my journey.

my journey…

••••

why did you let me think about my journey?

if you were here, watching me, pulling focus to my every movement, you would be able to tell me to stop, 

you would be able to force me to enjoy this moment,
      you wouldn’t say:
             but what about all that you haven’t yet
             done?

you wouldn’t say that, but i do.
                           and now that i am alone, i slowly,
                                  but surely, back myself up

against this wall,
                    this wall the one that
                    separates us, destroying
                    our final chance at hope.

but what can we do?
what can i do but wait?

yet here i go again, asking myself questions,
i’d be better off focussing on my journey,
no matter how endless it may seem,
and how little may ever come of it.

what is the use of such extravagant fecundity when,
in reality,
there is such little use for it?
for, as i’m sure you, too, well know,
so few listen to words as they stand,
as, separate, they mean nothing other then what is,
at face value,
seen,
          but together,
                 together, they are everything.

it is a shame that so few choose to pair them as      
          such.

••••

that wasn’t a good day, i know that. 
(you don’t have to remind me, it’s okay)

i could feel that i was real, that my achievements anything but lacklustre, yet my mind wouldn’t let me rest, not in the slightest.

it seems that all i say is interlarded with those evermore frequent paroxysm’s of complete hopelessness (it seems so), yet within, 

in this chest, this one here which you used to kiss so softly that it would feel my heart were to burst out of it, spin into the weightless air above, before bursting through the window and flying off into the distance, 

abnegating the need to keep my soul alive, 

but within, within my chest (as i had been saying),
i can see that there is still hope, that there is still a chance for me,

perhaps not here,
(although perhaps my time is already up),
but if not here then there may be another life, 
another world where the spirals do not keep turning, 
where they remain still for long enough so that,

in absence of those superfluously superficial outbreaks i am now so known for (at least by you),

i can regain control of my spindly existence,
      making every fleeting moment,
            no matter how short it may be,
      feel as though it would be, in absence of it,
a crisis beyond all knowable to the human heart.

yes. i know. the same as always. a drama queen.
           you’ve told me enough times for me to know,
                 i have an inclination to the regressive
                       cynical world of below, when my mind,
                              so sore after all these years,

gives in.

••••

and so now, to avoid relaying our memories to this empty space, this chassis of which i now believe to be, 

the joint mind which we forged together, 

i will retain the beauty of the unknown present.

perhaps we are, indeed, a mere copy of those those leucistic pigeons that we had seen at the zoo

(the most interesting appearance made),

and so, in our difference from all those around us,
we are merely, 
                         ignored, forgotten, misunderstood.

it’s true that i try, i try and so do you, to build a river of gold upon the streaming charcoal that currently flows, but some just do not wish to listen,

not until it is too late.

but eventually they see it, they do, that we’re different,
                and, rather than ignoring us,
                or pretending not to see our movements,
     
                       they are forced to appreciate
               the        beauty        and        the       pain

that, from such individuality, or so we thought, comes flowing out,

with little reticence, and a great propensity for
                  suffering,

a flower so bright that all that may look upon it,
may go blind.

but then what is the use of that flower if they are    
              blind?

what is the use of us, if our images, our words,
                    cannot be

felt?

••••

and now the end, the one i’ve been waiting for,
the one you received with such joy
                                                               (i could tell).

here it is, waiting for me, it’s arms open,
it’s appearance the same as all we have seen throughout our long, tiring days

(what disappointment that must’ve brought you).

••••

but at least now, now that i am done

(or at least i believe myself to be)

now that the curtains have closed,

the claps and cheers have ceased,

the corners have grown cataclysmically dark,

and you, your beautiful face, can be envisaged,

once again…

i can finally
         

rest.

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