Loss

How easy is it to lose yourself, through the pain of transition, through the everyday horrors of life, lasting and surviving pouring the milk, brewing the coffee, looking them in the eye. How easy is it to lose yourself with nothing, on your own, only looking to what's inside to bury it, without the help of the next drink, or inhaling the fumes, or the shiny little pills prescribed by the doctor, or bought in the park, small and shining and alive. I lost myself, but then I came back, I always come back, and the light is somehow more subdued, edges have got blurred, every time. Every time slightly more.

Peace

In the everlasting story of every day, I dream that humour flows through our veins like blood from the sky, that we can live in a nirvana lost somewhere between heaven and earth, that magic runs freely through our sight and our touch , that we live and breathe and love and die being true to ourselves, giving the best of ourselves
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/467197

Rain

Zurich in the rain
my neck aches from lack of sleep, staring into the depths of the night amongst the bright lights that surround me
distorted by the rain
thoughts get distorted in the night and leave me with a hollow feeling and empty ideas, lost in the rain.
I have my MacBook Air but haven't worked out the solution to the world, it is there at the edge of my consciousness, I can't quite reach it, can't quite capture it, not even with my MacBook
perhaps I lost something, somewhere, those problems are still there
and my ideas are dissolving in the rain

Running

The airport in Venice

6am and completely empty, even the bars are closed. The coffee machine staring at me, but no one here, and I can't have my coffee, can't open myself up for the day, I can just slump in my seat and stare into the eyes of the sun welcoming me to another trial of survival

How far do you have to run before you can really escape? All around the world and I can't seem to find it, it makes no difference, people still glance to see the hollowness and the emptiness. It's always the same, even the Italians speaking quickly, high on espresso, even they take notice

How far do you have to run

First you need to know what you are running from, where you are running to

First you have to admit it

Falling

I'm walking through

there was always somewhere in my mind that I looked to escape. I used to call it my island, my dirty little island, I imagined it as one of those cartoon types, with a palm tree in the middle and it being about big enough to lie across, nothing more. But it was dark, dark grey, like it was being seen on a black and white TV, and it was cold and nervous, in the aftermath of a storm, rainclouds circling around and it being a dirty haven against the acid rain all around, burning into the water and pushing me closer to the centre.

The sad, helpless way of escaping, and even that has disappeared now. Last night I spent hours searching for it, looking through the mist and the rain, searching amongst the wreckage and the dead animals but it's gone, sunk, disappeared into the frightening sea. And so I wander now, looking at my hands shaking, shivering in the April frosts, looking for something that doesn't exist

Pills

Powder in a plastic capsule that dissolves in my stomach. I don't know what it is but my doctor tells me it's OK. It's like a parachute with all its strings broken, falling towards the red streaks in the sea where my island used to be. It doesn't give me my island back because it's not in my head, it's just a chemical reaction, but they at least give me a shred of hope, a thin line to hold on to.

My doctor tells me, my hands are still shaking, but it's OK. It's OK.

Shadows

4am on 13th March I look through the night and see myself reflected in the windows over the dark street the shadows are here but they offer no comfort, no redemption I cry out to them and they look back at me, blank, they reflect the darkness that I can feel in my mind. I need to get away from this I need to run and hide and forget and forego but it keeps bringing me back, it's nothing I can escape from, it is the world, the light and the shadows, the sun and the darkness, all reflected back to me. Just another victim. Just small, insignificant, utterly pointless but here nonetheless, this is the only world I know and there is nowhere else I can go. Why can't we escape from the materialism that drives us, even when we are given the option. Even when it's there, put there on a plate in front of us, why is it so hard to let go of these things.

Night

Writing is like a catharsis when I can't sleep. Night demons won't go away, and she can't save me much as I wish she could. 3am and the sweats are running; I'm just another victim of the modern desire for everything. Bigger house, bigger car and 10 seconds of fame.