Serial Killer Don't Mind Falling In Love . . . (to be continued)

" I should have killed us both. I knew it was impossible to survive but I was wrong. Our souls are better than that. I could guess and feel that damned bus shrieking, imploding and sparkling to eventually explode into billions of shattered naked galaxies which atoms solidified the entire frozen trail of rainbow-tears from my eyes and heart and orphan arms to footsteps of yours tracing back up to your own eyes and soul and smiles all erased for ever.

" We knew and experienced Death in that goodbye. Yet our chain of prisms linking us sometimes vibrates from your side of the world while on mine life again rises proudly and I can feel your presence and there I am on the other side of the screen, reborn from Time and Space, smiling with a kind heart burning up in my chest that your digital wires and fingers would like to taste and electrify. I can feel it resonating and beeping from where I cannot savor you.

" It's a circle of mad self-inflicted thoughts I am entrapped in since the day we split up and bound until death became your friend and enemy. I survived with arms ravished. Setting foot on unknown streets to fear and conquer and loath squatting in the corner of somewhere not appropriate, I kiss my wounded feet. Where can I go now? Whistling with the wind blowing through the door, on my back I think of you every second.

" How many never ending hours until my heart would stop beating under such pain and insatiable blood boiling in the mud of an imaginary dreamworld waiting in its cocoon where we would fit inside together.

" Touch the sun and kiss the rain.

" Remain that cold tomb rotting in vain without me.

" Goodbye my love. "

If it hadn't been for love, I would not be as crazy as I am today. Haha-Haha!

*This Hell of a spell

It's Already Gone

You are dreaming -- palm trees and big ants -- while I think of you, sleepwalking --  our mirror like iris reflected upon our expanded yet convergent looks and smiles sparkling, billowing, puffing inside my soft consumed brains. I felt your arms around my armpits, lifting me up and high on yours knees around my ankles. My oath goes 'I'll be your slave on which you shall rely on until death do us part.' You might be as far as it seems but I can feel your presence. My smile broadened to such extremes it hurt. 'It's already gone. Time bends to do as I say and I say "present!"! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!' I lost it. Where is it? I want my smile back! Give it to me! No!

The bus stole it from me. You were in there. You died in there! The last time I saw you,  my whole being died and I'm still dealing with it today. I can't even possibly think of any means to describe it. I wish I could forget things so badly because it hurt so much.

On the plane, on my way back, I cried literally my heart out! I died on wine to forget my home friends were already in my arms -- strangers, enemies and new reasons to become even more paranoid in a world that I could not belong to any more. I lied to you and I still do when I tell you I'm fine. My arms and soul beg you to come back to me to make me feel the energy of life again. We were God! We could be anything. We were invincible and handsome. Our past life is cursed and revive once a year in flesh and flames chained to the ultimate tablet on which it says 'You're broken now!' in terrible gold capital letters to die again yet conscious enough to feel the pain to come again.

"Untitled"

He dived in Cascade Street to rush out onto the horror of the memory. Now, pull up your sleeves and make it shape the way it makes you feel. His typewriter says 'Contented'. He remembers flying high on his back on wine and tears back when he thought people could be trusted blindly. How could he erase himself? That guilt curled up deep down in his bleeding stomach -- an imaginary old bum dying with a puddle of puke covering his soul. How he wished he could forget things -- tied up on an electric chair. 'A yellow light broke into the kitchen and I woke up in the hospital.' It was quiet and dreadful. He ran out and got lost in the streets clutching and stumbling, despair all over his face. He became the 'Stolen Child' leaving no happy hearts behind him. 

Here Somewhere

It's getting dark inside. His brains clicked and shed some light at the back of his, thus, illuminated eyes. 'Follow my yellow light*1' He mumbles in his conscious-sleepwalks. A holy ghost with thoughts torn apart and thrown away through the gutter. He tries to fuse with his déjà vus -- the traces and the triggers of such a confused state of mind -- but his vague memories mingle and shatter every time, leaving him mourning the loss of a data killed in the formatting process. Waking up somewhere he doesn't know, then he realizes that something just happened to him. At that precise instant, he'd go blind and hear... a distant dim beat. What sound? Sound's like an echo of a thump flunk at the very back of his skull. Something emerges. What seemed lost and dead appears to be... A memory -- a rather fragmented report on sensations -- or a souvenir -- which on the contrary would seem more like a story line ? 'Which one does prevail?' 'Should one prevail?' 'Do they make one?' 'How to dissociate them.' 'Do they make sense if read apart?' The answer is here somewhere... He keeps looking...

In his actual sleep, filled with dreams and pretty lights dancing, billowing and revolving around his grayish veins, his head cannot handle this much voices until it somehow disconnects and shuts his entire being down, yet flickering, showing signs of life. Something's not right, one pulse seems off-beat.

*1 'Yellow Light' Of Monsters And Men

Only If For A Smile*

He felt a presence other than the barks of stinky people in the tram this morning. Many faces stared at him as if they knew what he was thinking. 'You wish,' he said to himself. 'You may hear my thoughts though you'll never know if they're true!' He closed his eyes before the car stopped and stepped down on the road now heading to some place safe. 'Where is he ?' He started to collect information on that issue with a coffee in his hand and a cigarette in his mouth. 'Let's find out!' He started wandering in empty libraries and shops.

*'Only If For A Night' from  Florence And The Machine - Ceremonials

(un)eXpected

He kept saying to himself how stupid he was. As he strode along the sidewalk on his way to Allan's apartment he bit his tongue and pressed the black 'A' button. The door buzzed in as he pushed the heavy iron frame shrieking rust out. He started the ascension of the innumerable floors and last stairs. At last, there he is, behind that door he opens wide and a smile on his face -- always a smile on his face. Oh Allan. It's been a billion years I've seen this smile on your face. 'These stairs killed me man!' & 'How about, I miss you ?'

He lowered his eyes as heavy as the moon*1. He just recalled how his heart had shrunk the last day they saw each other. How it shrank while the bus carried him away from Allan. Through his five hour trip 'to where?', he wondered and forgot. Allan's face and the moments they spent together glittered and made every single rain drop freeze on the window. He remembers Allan looking at him panicked and helpless. How he wished the snow would slow the bus down and make it stop. Everything turned cold. He swore he would come back to him. For the time being, suffering from the separation is, to him, the worst thing he has ever felt in his whole life. He's being stabbed from the inside. Happiness turned as black and frightening as an unborn child's nightmare forced to rush out of its mother's womb. Although something painful pierced through his chest, ripping his soul out. Crowned with sorrow and , his face froze against the ice cold seat of the bus. He realized he was crying, his face perfectly still yet with eyes too red to pretend that everything would be alright after that moment. Tears of silence and tears borrowed from the dark matter. No words have been invented to describe this experimental sensation of disaster. The world would collapse with the indifference of a bug crawling between the roots of trees higher than stars stuck at the back of his head. Nothing should keep on living after the stupor of that instant ; except that bug that flies out of his lungs while staring at the hard wood floor of the corridor. 'I can't.'

*1 "as heavy as the moon" Allen Ginsberg, HOWL

Everything Is Gonna Be Alright

He remembered he read something like that photograph he just snapped. The sensation of the brush from... what ? he wondered. The spots of deep and dark almost invisible black and yellowish cracks eating up the frustrated memories entrapped upon a paper cage fascinated him beyond his own expectations. He wondered where that sensation came from. His heart started beating madly. He flung the photograph out through the window, his fist shattering the integrity of the glass. The white of his eyes turned to chaos and he took an incredible deep roaring breath, almost trembling and cold. His head that was about to burst turned dangerously pale. He looked down at his fist. Not a scratch. He'll get used to the grumbling of the city, always working out new ways to control people's thoughts. Right from his top-floor apartment, he could hear the city's cries emanating from our sadness. He would jump in the lake from warning signs to sand to plunge and flee and free his bounds in the water. 'The circus has escaped the mad house!' Only a few can be trusted. He watches currents of umbrellas drifting over the city, following the whistling of a phantom-orchestra conducted by a hooted madman He has seen so many things -- things he can only keep for himself. Where did he feel that ?

He usually remembers things well. He realized he could see things differently and switch his epileptic like gush of thoughts on and off. That was a mistake. The switch grew old and tired like the young yet functioning man he was. The switch would get stuck from time to time and he would dive into a whirling machinery of confused interpretations. The world outside and the world upstairs seemed to him the worst antagonistic aspects of what the Other incarnates to him. This interests him no more except for what he or she has to offer. People are to him some sort of hollow racketing trains shouldering their way through mud , speed light wires of individuals' unique lenses which surveillance screens is Money. He knew there is something in there lurking behind electrified neuron chains. The Other is shrouded behind gas masks worn out and foul. Falling into the leitmotiv lie from the bureaucratic farce is exactly the same as keeping the myth of achievement real -- everything is gonna be alright except peoples have to die to drip-feed and oil the Machinery. He never thought his ever-lasting century would collapse so quickly.