dayzago

There are pieces of me all over the place  on scraps of paper, in gutters and drains and cigarette butts, lying on the plains of my travels. Will you consider these pieces of mine worth the while  of hunting them down on the floors of clubs and along  public roads Picking them up, polishing them  and piecing them back together again?

May I recognize the universal in the strangest and loneliest of spaces. May those familiar things bring familiar tears to my eyes and a new smile to my lips Knowing that I breath the self-same air under the self-same skies.

i hear the sad notes in every song        i don't try to but every time i cry        i don't ask for it but it tears at my soul    for no reason    no pain    no sorrow present makes suffering all the more pleasant

My pen is leeg geskryf – swart strepe gekerf in die wit sy van my lyf – swart oor wit gevryf. grys paadjies vloei oor die keersy van my moed en oortuiging. En vat hande met die vreemdeling in die spieël (en daarbuite) die bekende pedofiel in die straat - die Kersvader, die Paashaas huppel en spring deur die voetpaadjies van my klein-klein dae. Die begin van die pad: onbekend en wasig, en wonderlik naïef. Miskien, as ek ver genoeg kan terugstap... Presies. Niks.

Half of my personality craves to live in exile. Yet, unfortunately for her, she is an incurable little know-it-all. This makes her intended disappearances a wee bit... difficult. (A better description:  impossible.) While slumbering peacefully, she recieves a whif of my other half's doings. She purposefully ups and ends - You can guess where it is she's going. (She does know what she's doing... after all.) I find myself in tears, undeniably hurt: Bones bleeding, sould trembling - All trampled into the unforgiving dirt. "Is it a tad melodramatic we're being?" I ask of me.  "Indeed," says she who knows how soon my upendedness

I don't care for the rules you're throwing in my face I'm looking for something real to replace a repetitive routine made redundant; a place where I could be all I wanted: Euphoria created by confusion.

The whisper in her ear sends a shiver down her spine link by link, second by second she feels less and less inclined to cover everything (anything?) that matters and matters not in the big scheme of things. She waits, impatiently and hums the Song of Songs wondering what the mistakes and dreams of yesterday may bring or take, rip away from an already confused mind She stops, and starts For her yesterdays and tomorrows mingle in a single face a single thought that brings the realization: It doesn't really matter in the big scheme of things.

Echoes in the empty caverns lit dimly by ideas based on assumptions created by fear. A repetitive storm in a teacup.