Frankly, I don't know how. To reach out to anyone or to let anyone reach in to me. Talking just doesn't seem to do it. I talk about many things, I know quite a few things, I joke fairly well, I can listen. But the problem is probably words. Words just can't describe what is that that is hiding in me. It's rather a sensation of sort, that you can rub around the edges with the skin of your soul, a lump residing within the heart and stirring the movement and beating and quivering of the heart, and it has a linking line that curls up all the way along the spine to the head, such that you at once feel with the mind and think with the heart and nothing could be said.
There are those who are alike. Cursed with the same solitude. And when I look into their eyes, I know that they know that I know. Then a fleeting smile. A nod of the head. And still, silence.
Driven on, we write with futile desperation. Knowing what it is will never come out true and real. We make believe, we lie, we persuade. And often we sing, we take photographs, we dance, we draw. We do anything that is possible, to rid ourselves of ourselves, to find a connection to another, through a medium. We make love, we have sex, we fuck. We would strip and strip and strip till the layers are none, and no one saw us.
I am the man who was there and the man who isn't here. That all the things said about me: the praises, the quarrels, the rumours, the confessions, the photos you took of me, the pictures you drew of me, the poems you wrote for me, the emails you sent me, your touches, your tears, the times you told me you need me, the times you think about me, your sorry, your pity, your gladness that you met me - may not be true.
I flow out when you grab me tight. Broken up. And I come together again, resting in your open palms: I am formless, shapeless. I evaporate and you don't know. I fall down cold but you never feel it, under your umbrella, in the rain, looking for me.
I don't know what to do. But I can pretend. Because I have been acting and pretending all the while. Believing that there is a God. That God is fair. And kind. That someone can see me. That someone can tell me it's okay. That it doesn't have to hurt. That the someone can pinpoint the source of this madness in my head. That the someone can lay a ear on my chest and tell me what my heart is trying to say. That I don't have to pretend anymore.
That I don't have to pretend to be living here anymore.
