You know what’s it like to walk in a circle?
Yeah, you start at one point and then you walk and walk and come to the same place again. But what if the circle is too huge? What if you never knew it was a circle because it was so large, its ends didn’t curve around the horizon?
And you thought you had a destination, when all you’ve been doing is crossing the same places again and again and never reaching anywhere. Do you even know where you started? Where did the time go?
Is it history repeating? It is a deja vu?
How long have you been in this? Does it end? Is it a path, or a dimensionless ocean of abandoned directions?
You pause to wait, and think.
The pause is… is nice… your feet feel rested… you breath catches up with the air it lost. And you’ve been smiling… you’re not confused… you’re not tired, not battered…
So finally you have a choice to stop, and break away. And then you realise, the pause has become too long to still be called so. You wonder…
It’s only wise to get up and get going again.
Your legs… your legs won’t move… they like it here, they don’t want to aimlessly run towards unknown again… they want to rest. They want to give it up.
It’s a cycle… an endless cycle. Of hurt, of uncertainity, of hopelessness, of repeated routines, of meaningless moves… it just doesn’t cease…
Day after day, month after month… it’s added up to years. How time could be relative, ask me.
It feels like centuries. Some eighteen years of feeble existence and I already feel old and dying.
Is this what too much seeing, hearing, feeling and thinking does? Is this ageing?
Seen too much, with these eyes,
with them open, and when shut,
with them tearing, and when they sear.
Deafened and defeated, to cries,
those aloud, those in the head,
is all that left, for me to hear.
Skin’s been bared, to brunt and bruise,
when tender, and when tormented,
has only remanant ash to smear.
Thoughts, mangled, tangled, torn,
within them all these devils, born,
does itself create, and does itself fear.
What did it make, this crumbling home, this tortured love? It made me. It made me who I am.
They ask me to ignore it. They want me to forget it. They want me to get over. They want me escape this.
How do I escape myself, how do I uncreate my creation, how do I forget my own making, my tendencies, my nature, my own being?
How do I detach who I am from what I am? Are they not the same?
Parting with these thoughts, these beliefs, these opinions, the hurt, the past… is like remaking myself. Moulding hardened clay only breaks it.
How long will this take me? When and where do I start again?
This circle never ends my journey.
Is this a circle? They tell me that it would end. I like believing that. But the cycle always repeats, all of the hurt happens again…
… End this.
That’s all my heart seems to say.
Tears have long left the desert of my soul.
Comfort was always a momentary mirage.
Care was a transient weather.
Love was only a dream of bountiful rain.
… it never came.
Hopes vanished like the last scintillations of evaporating water. All is lost. The heat of anger, and hatred… perishes all but dry sand. Dry sand is all that is left. It will not wet with few drops of rain.
The depths of yearing are too deep.
Can you fill them up? I can’t.
I’m here, in this maze, in this cycle, in this vast desert that is parched and isolated.
I have only the lonely winds to move me, only repeated incidences to recount from the cycles, and only my instinct to survive to run me through the maze.
What have you? To live, and to give?