The Insanity

Look at these crooked fingers, the dirt embedded beneath my nails. My guilty hands, the marks on them, the way I never know where to put them or what to do with them. They are proof of what I have done and have never been able to do. This silence, the stillness of my body beneath the great blanket that is the night sky, the quick, quiet moment between heartbeats. The way my heart aches for people I don't know. How I can go days wondering why I am the way I am, the person I am. I am not dissatisfied so much as I am curious. I have always been curious, always wandering, always searching, always finding new unrequited love, always breaking. Waking up and wondering if I've woken up. Waking up and wishing I hadn't woken up. Waking up and waking up again and again until it is no longer a tedious 'something', just another something that everyone else does and doesn't think twice about. The way words can turn me black and white. The way words can change blue into a darker blue. The way words are feelings are subconscious thoughts are my voice, recorded and played over and over again, projected from a loudspeaker, announced from a moving vehicle allowing only parts of me into your ear until my voice becomes just a fleeting sound, a tunnel wind, sweeping past you, pulling leaves and debris along with it. These are some parts of me. The crooked parts. The parts that make you look once and maybe twice but never three times. The parts that make me feel disconnected and connected again in the strangest way. Like we're all so confused and curious and afraid of what is coming and what isn't. We're all so caught up in romance, in tending to our needs, watering our plants in the evening, fixing dinner for one, mostly. But to this day I feel like my eyes are only temporary ones, they will fall away when I am fast asleep and I will wake up with baby blues that know how to see the world the way it is supposed to be seen. Eyes that won't misinterpret bone for beauty. Eyes that don't stare at suns that were never born, or read books that were never written. Eyes that will see the inside as it is and the outside as it will always be; temporary.