It feels weird to be here again, considering how many lifetimes have gone by since I had something to say. Not that I have anything in particular to say tonight, but the silence is killing me. I hate silences, the way one would hate an especially rotten smell. It isn't just a mental sort of loathing, but an overwhelming physical sensation that makes you clench your teeth and steel your insides.
I'm home again.
The real problem with silence is that it can't be drowned out. I'm fairly certain of this, because I've tried everything. And the only thing that ever helps is screaming inside your head. But even that doesn't work if you can't find your voice. And I think I've lost mine.
I haven't been able to write for too long now. I think it's because every time I decide I want to try, the letters rush into each other, melting together like some sort of soup mix gone horribly wrong until I can't tell whether they're saying anything at all. It takes every bit of strength I can muster to just separate them from one another and read them as words. Usually I can manage that.
Sometimes I can't.
When things go wrong, you can draw upon an inner strength that kicks in like some sort of dependable electricity-generator. But when the only problem is one with the voltage, there's nothing to do but try and finish reading your novel in the flickering light, hoping you don't miss out on something important that would have completely transformed your life.
I can't understand time. And it feels like space itself is playing some twisted prank on me, trailing me with shadows and tricking me into believing that I'm never by myself. Clawing through curtains makes my fingernails bleed, and it tortures me that the only physical evidence left behind is smudged kohl and chalk under my nails.
I used to know where I was going, even though I pretended otherwise. Now, I feel out of focus, like a photograph taken from a shaky camera on a star studded night. Frozen in perpetual blurriness. Like a snowflake. Unique if you bother to put it under a microscope, but just a tiny, falling, melting piece of ice otherwise.
I have become my own dream. But there's nothing more to destroy here. And I can barely hide in the areas of this canvas that are still devoid of paint, pen marks and blood. Thank God for stainless tears.
The carousel is making me sick, and I keep telling myself I'll jump off when it completes one more circle. Except I can't tell the beginning from the middle from the end.. And I've almost come to believe that there is no difference. Maybe it never began. Maybe it will never end.
I'm still going to jump though. Regardless of whether or not Prince Charming or the Snow Queen reward me with their promised kiss of life. And if I manage to melt the glass in your eye as I sail through the air, I'll crash magnificently to the ground, shining in all sorts of colors as you cry for perceived sacrifices.
But, time is so much faster than I can be. And it's running out the rabbit hole. I thought Wonderland was beautiful, and I still think so. But the paint is peeling off the walls and I'm beginning to think this was only a cheap imitation. Or maybe it's dying.
And I'm so dizzy...