Sketchy contours in the distance, raindrops on the front shield. Dancing amazed, crackling, dissolving, without resistance. The alley ahead seems to stand still. We are moving fast forward. Fast forward, slowly down the hill. Layers of fog cover wet concrete. The road ahead of us, mysteriously disappears into uncertainty. Gazing through the drained glass, motionless. Flashes illuminate the grey nothingness called sky. Their rythm, like heartbeats of voiceless clouds in rage. No thunder, only the macabre light show above us.
I am longing for company. Somebody to feel free with. Warm matter next to me. Reaching out for me, lifting the weight with a single embrace. I want to be alone. Without my mask, but with my sorrow. Desperation. Thoughts chasing each other. Stumbling around in my head. Imploding, exploding. The need to immaterialize. To vanish away, leaving nothing behind. Without a trace. Without any sound. Without any meaning.
But there is nothing left. Apart from moving on and on. Deeper into the fog, never knowing what might suddenly appear on the dark road.

. . . . . . . . . .

"[...] this core that we carry inside us of black and poisonous ink that darkens everything we touch, everything we experience [...]"
Thanks to D. for this wonderful description of an extremely sad truth.
17.9.11 15:24