I died last week, I think. Some of me did.
You
bend and
you bend and you bend and eventually you
break. Eventually you get
weak, and you
shatter, and you
fall.
It is at that point where
time stops,
the world goes away, and the attention of the gods is only
for you. It is a
sacred place.
Only in these places can
true change be made. Some people
build and
bind these circles, some people can visit what is
holy to them, whenever they want.
Others have to
break.
...
I died last week. I stopped fighting back, and I bent, and I broke. I saw only
cardboard skies, and
masked pedestrians. Music felt
empty in my ears, and I had no love for
stories, or
passion to tell them.
Yesterday, I tried to wash all the
flesh away, and blind myself with
chemical passion.
Somewhere in all the
dead skin, I found something
real.
...
Today, I was alive.
My nerves burned with every touch, and my eyes saw a little more
colour, a little more beauty in the
city streets under the night.
I hope my
melodramatic writing is somewhat excused.
There is a story
interrupted, one that needs resolution. I have
Kenza’s permission.
The city whispers in my ear, and calls me close. I need to sleep in
Toronto’s arms, and see her smile again.