"...the birds will sing as I awake, again after again, & I will find how to be okay."
28/06/23
Here I go, and I stand firmly before my failure. A rite of passage, more or less. Listening to a profound silence, holding a void between my teeth. I have taken my makeup off and now I am nothing. A constant headache and its ringing. Today was okay, but tomorrow won't be. Proving ones incompetence is never a joyride though, is it? I find comfort, though.
My cat is blissfully dreaming away, running after some small thing in his sleep. I hear the clock ticking. The persistent creaking of this old run-down home. I find myself wondering if I'll miss it when I'm gone. My fingers still smashing down on the keys through it all. Clacking tiredly. The cigarette burning as I inhale. My own exhaling. A familiar riff of an unfamiliar song by a band I saw live a few days back, back when I was content with myself. How quickly the mood shifts. All these lovely things around me, and I am so ungrateful, ungrateful enough to feel unaccomplished. And dear God, do I feel it all.
The chill of late night hours on my legs, crawling down to my feet, the monotone clashing produced by the buttons of my sleeves as I move my hands, slightly, the slightest. I am alive, but only in the sense of having to remind myself of it. How strange it is, being a living apparition.
I will wake my cat with a treat to let him know I love him. I will tell my family goodnight, to let them know I think of them constantly. I will send you a letter, to prove to you that I am writing everything about you. Not a chapter I've written, without you sliding into it, making it complete; making me fine.
And so be it. As above, so below.
YOU ARE READING
The Hoplite
PoetryIII Letters to myself or to someone I love. I'm still deciding on it.
