returnpoint

[returnpoint]

Schnapps

I don't think you are.. anymore.

For me, dead is dead. Death is purification, not from sin; there is no sin. Let me rephrase, death is an end.

Therefore i don't think you are anymore.

But for what is worth, and to you i know it worth a lot, you ll always be alive inside of me.

You ll always be you and there will be a room, tidied up, cozy and warm to house you and envelope you containing all you may need by my side, and definitely in my mind and heart.

However if by any chance resurrection exists, a second-coming is plausible, and any of all that shit… come and find me, no matter what.

I will make it work.

In any shape or form.

[returnpoint]

When i first loved you I made my world very small

When you first loved me You made your world very small Containing only me

Protecting our union we nurtured it with our time And the world was tiny for us Only you and me would fit

But as love grew so did the world for you

You loved me more, so much that it could now handle a little distance, some obstacles, people, activities in between

Yet my world still only had room for you and me

Perhaps by habit but i think by design Yet my world still only had room for you and me

Mostly to accommodate yours, ever growing

Yet my world only had room for you and me

Indeed because I was content as is Till i was not

Us, now, far and in between

Far and in between what has all previously been

In the end two, not one, but two worlds colliding in the dark and then drifting apart, merging

Merging, sadly while retaining all our shortly lost and unneeded individuality

The problem lies I see in me

Isn't it grand to find myself at last in this predicament?

[returnpoint]

All those countless tears of childhood.

What if I simply went astray,

Or was physically removed and placed atop something, anything, anywhere else

at least not within it.

Would I be free?

Free of your inhibitions,

your nameless ways to keep me here

An arrested child,

-Would I be me?

his arrested development…

His affable ways, a minion permanently frozen in time

His temper tantrums, a defense against the terror of this world

His little fragile, exposed heart - what a privilege to hold

then effortlessly smash according to your angelically injurious intentions…

Why did you dream up me to be this small?

Why have you kept me here?

Returned me here?

Again and again through all our different silently explosive wars,

our half-assed explosively silent reconciliations…

Sometimes, you hurt me still and it takes me by surprise, always somehow by surprise.

You make me feel I’m but a flume filled with all those countless tears of a prolonged childhood.

And if you ever finally leave me then what will there be left of me?

-What even is me?

[returnpoint]

F

I dig deep. Or maybe I pretend, since I only find a God I don't believe in. I ask of you and they say you are doing just fine, but how would they know? You are not there yet, are you? No, I keep you around, still. I nurture this childish fascination inside of me that if I hold on to you tight, tight enough, you'll never have to leave. All the while I feel I am holding you back, as if I could; but feeling guilty for imaginary things is one of my fetishes, when I should by now know the one I hurt is none but me.

I dig some more, certain I must be only faking it for I keep not reaching you in there. And my fingers hurt since I refuse to use my man-made tools. I surely must not want to find you in there. We all know you should be in there.

All dead things crawl inside before they unavoidably escape this realm, and you are not a thing, but, alas, you are dead, aren't you?

But I am still seeing you on the street, wearing all those different faces, and I insist that my eyes present me you, now, urgently yet, they never do; since you've been dead a year now as we've been informed. And I keep seeing your face superimposed on strangers' faces. I want to come up to them and hug them, oh how I want to love them all.

A girl waiting for the bus, she is wearing a mask and I keep insisting it's you;

You, who surely just woke up one day and decided you wanted something different from life, so you shed us off; got rid of your face and possibly your name and started anew.

I wouldn't mind at all, just so you know. I would just come up and say hello, have my proper goodbye and let you be. So long as I knew you are out there I would be ok. Or maybe I would just smile from afar, like I do now when I creep those strangers out and never come any closer at all. So long as I knew you are out there I would be ok.

Not even I believe my wishful thinking anymore, since you've been dead a year now and even though I see you, friend, almost everywhere, almost everyday with countless different faces, a part of me mourned for you as best as I could and refuses to resurrect you.

Take two.

I dig deep. Or maybe I pretend, since everything I once was, guarded and scared and unwilling to feel you being let go, I think I am not anymore. I don't need to dig deep; you are not that far away anymore, even as you definitely, unmistakably are not here. You are not even buried within.

You just are; immortalized in my mind's eye, free to roam around my memories and envelop me when I need, eternally safe from being anything less important to me.

We are creeping closer to the two year mark, I mean, you are, and I don't need a God to define what you are anymore. You are dead, friend. And I still and forever love you.

[returnpoint]

à la carte

I keep on wondering who is going to be the first to exit the simulation.

Each quest, I've come to know, leads me further away from my initial goal. The lights lead me astray. Some days I even forget to include the real you in my thoughts. The lights lead me astray. How very poetic of me.

There are lost dogs, wet and surely cold, that keep following me around, begging me to love them. I've thus somehow managed to form a pack and proclaimed myself their leader. What a peculiar sight we must surely be to the rest of the crowd. “Hey, I only want the company as I am following the lights.”, I assure them.

I am aware I have no true intention on saving anybody. How cunning life makes us all, right?

I am not in control. I am only following the lights. Did I mention they are leading me astray?

Nice and slow, I think I might have one more life left to go.  

Τhe quests seem endless still.

Everything here aspires to sidetrack me. Everything here is distinctly familiar to my previous designs. We instill pieces of us in anything we do; Even the things we do to hide us from ourselves. My dogs are howling at the lights again.

I keep on wondering who is going to be the first to exit the simulation. I think it might be you.

But all my dogs love you. And all my dogs are begging me to love them. And the crowd is closing in on me, staring provokingly.

I may not want to have to leave yet. There isn't truly, though, such a thing as nice and slow; When the lights turn out I know I only have this life left to go.

[returnpoint]

Blackbird

Maybe we'll no longer believe in one another's stories and midnight epiphanies. Wouldn't that be such a waste, lover?

I had a blackbird on my shoulder once on a fairly windy day, have I told you this one yet? He appeared out of nowhere and landed on me with this familiarity habits often manage out of the most uncommon of things. He looked me straight into the eye and his iris widened as he realized I was not his human. He stayed on my shoulder all the same, perhaps because sometimes it's not the particular person we seek but the opportunity to rest somewhere comfortable for just a little while. And, I mean we can always search for the person later, later... like you did, like I did, like we did...

And the bird started singing in my ear; directly in my ear, mind you.

I am not all that ok, he said finally concluding his song. And he pointed at his wings. I said hmm; not as in “damn, if this isn't a talking bird”, not even as in “I am definitely going bananas over here”. Just hmm, as in “hey you bird, I can relate, just take a look at my heart; it ain't much anatomically, only a wonder, and how I have managed to fuck it up in a million different ways, boy oh boy! But let's focus on you.”

I am not all that ok, the blackbird repeated, since clearly he agreed we should indeed focus on him. And he pointed at his wings.

The little yellow ring in his eye pointing at me got smaller again and the wind almost knocked him off of me, so I got a hold of him. Maybe do not attempt to rob me of my freedom, he said. Just 'cause I am currently weak, he said. But I would never ever cage anyone else other than myself. And maybe you. Hush, now. I said maybe. We should be focusing on the bird.

Oh, how I am not all that ok, he dramatically exhaled. I got in a brawl last night. Yeah, birds do have shit to settle, too. Don't you get all high and mighty on me, now. And as evident by my state, well, I lost then, didn't I? Sadly, I did.

What was the fight about? I asked as it was expected of me.

Never mind you that, you nosy nosy one. The point is that I lost. And I am not all that ok. Can't you see my wings, honestly?

But his wings were just fine. He had landed on me perfectly. He had flown to me perfectly. And when the time came, he even flew away equally perfectly.

Yes, oh dear you. What will become of you now, bird? I played along, finally.

My name is not bird, human.

What is your name, then?

I am not telling you that. And I am not all that ok, so you should probably be more respectful of my overall state! I got in a brawl and I lost! And my wings, have you looked at my wings? What will become of me, you dare ask? I will avenge myself, that's what will become of me!

Shouldn't someone else be avenging you? Isn't that how it usually goes with these things?

Well, these things, these things are a matter of honor and respect. Have you seen yours around lately? Of course you have not; you are out in the woods, talking to a freaking bird, lady! And all n all, I am currently in short supply of blackbirds invested enough in adoring me. Hence I will avenge myself, thank you very much!

And just like that the little blackbird stormed off, never minding the wind previously threatening to knock him off the sky or me... on account of the state of his wings obviously...

I am not all that ok, I said to myself then, too. And mirroring the blackbird, I stormed off angry at the world, angry at me and of course, perhaps by habit too, angry at you.

I guess, we'll have to save the epiphanies for later on.

[returnpoint]

There are people we meet in life who miss being important to us by inches, days, or heartbeats. Another place or time or a different emotional frame of mind and we would willingly fall into their arms; gladly take up their challenge or invitation. But as it is, we encounter them when we are discontent or content and they are not. Whatever they are, we are not and vice versa. Two trains going in different directions that pass for a few powerful moments at full speed, blasting noise and wind but then they are gone. Whatever serious chemistry might have been possible if, isn’t.

Jonathan Carroll (via sunsetquotes)

[returnpoint]

  I used to know you; In the dark, in your room, like birds, mid-flight, paralyzed by the fear of a translucent wall, chasing down now their imminent demise, broken by nothing truly tangible  we fell.

I walk around with a survivor's limp ever since. Or rather a discombobulated stride, following myself around and around where he wants to go now, wherever he thinks he's going to locate that sly wall or, better, a deconstructed you - dear me, whichever finally comes first, really. A proof that it was not for naught, that we fell.

Should I could, would I go back through time? Freeze the frame to marvel on us and then, perhaps, watch us in slow motion eradicating our own selves inside one another until there is nothing but two birds, mid-flight, exposed to all the elements, searching for the wall, hoping for an electric storm or a fence or something or other...

I think not.

Both my feet work just fine.

In the dark, in your room, I didn't even use to know myself.

[returnpoint]

We exist in small increments lately. Rejoice a bit in a morning stroll. Wither a bit realizing it's only by permission. Feel grateful that we still exist at all. Judge the neighbor who never seems to mind. Pity or admire, depending on the day's toll those few unwavering that always quietly abide.

We exist in small bubbles, too. Did I forget to lock the door? Leave any provisions outside? Besides my sanity, I mean. It's different when it's by choice, we can all agree.

And I try to focus either on the now or the distant tomorrow. Dehumanize the day's numbers as soon as I'm informed. Make sure I've locked that damned door and I'm safely alone.

We exist in small increments. It's how we measure we are doing our part right. And when I'm bold I'll tell you wake up, that has always been so. Only we used to call these parts life.

[returnpoint]

A decision

The kid woke up quite early indeed, and moved silently across the corridor heading for the room with the closed, wooden door. He would not dare attempt to open the door today; his feet stumbled over nothing but themselves, and the floor bemoaned his presence. His breathing paused for a few seconds, and then his heart started beating again, frantically trying to help him run, just run, as far away as his little feet could take him.

Out on the field he was allowed all the noise his nature demanded; running over the abandoned grass, through the front gate – left ajar it seemed for moments like these – and onto the – overused expression, yes, sir – wild. He paused only when he was certain that turning his gaze back momentarily he could not distinguish the house from the imposing trees enduring this world's moodiness for centuries.

He caught his breath, examined himself and felt unsure as to what he was supposed to do next. The instructions had been clear but incomplete. Don't open the door, unless invited in. Don't make noise, unless it is explicitly requested. Don't remain in-house during light hours unless otherwise instructed. Food and accommodations will be provided indefinitely given you comply with the guidelines. Someone will be following up on your case on short intervals.

His case.

This was the first day of the rest of his life. He pondered on whether he had exchanged one cell for another, but dropped the insidious thought immediately since he was perfectly aware that he had no true agency over the unfolding events.

He thought of all those other kids coexisting with him up until the day before over on some other building that should you ask him now he could not even point to an approximation of the direction it had been at. He mused of their well being. He thought of the building and its impending demolition. He thought of the imminent termination of his previous caregivers. He decided he could not shed a tear for none, except perhaps for the other kids.

He wondered about their placement. Was it weirder than his? Was it more prominent, or god forbid important? Were they all together? Were they being trained differently now, or at all? Were they still indeed? Were they?

He decided he could not shed a tear for none at all after-all. He decided he had been betrayed. Excluded from the grand plan. Isolated and abandoned, destined to remain in fear of the contents of a room with a wooden door, of a creaky floor and an empty corridor he could swear was closing in on him as he navigated his way through it.

He decided he would go back, wash his face, have some breakfast, put on some clothes and his finest, and, sure, his only, shoes and storm that fucking, wooden, hoping not nailed-shut, door.

[returnpoint]

Green

Would I rather have stayed unaware?

Now,

years of scrutinizing my every inclination in order to finally get to know me,

would I rather turn blind, looking through the mirror

searching inside my proverbial iris for something more of me

or rather, more for me?

Twenty-four hours a day, scattered on all the insidious, cut-short thoughts,

I am attuned to the fact it has always been here,

spread over me, but small within me

chained by my own election,

- yet perpetually free

to wreck everything -

all the power to end my tyranny lays in my hands.

So is it implicit, I ask?

Indeed it has always been, I reply.

And so the one from inside the mirror laughs

while I still refuse to manipulate my face-muscles any other way.

Everything is but a lie;

most of all my inhibition to forgive myself,

most of all how I am unable to remember my late night resolutions the morning after,

most of all my insistence to not accept me as something that is not still what it once mastered to be

responding to someone else's volition for any reflection of identity.

Big, big words, left on repeat, while the meaningful ones are rather small,

such as:

No, I, simply, need, to, love, me, better, still

[returnpoint]

We love the things we love for what they are.

Robert Frost

[returnpoint]

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children. Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways, a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative estimate, though I keep this from my children. For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird. For every loved child, a child broken, bagged, sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world is at least half terrible, and for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you, though I keep this from my children. I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor, walking you through a real shithole, chirps on about good bones: This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful.

[returnpoint]

But that was the problem with grief. No one ever asked for it. It arrived with its bags already packed for an extended stay. It settled into your best guest room and demanded to be waited on all day long, and when it finally shuffled out the door, it left behind permanent scratches on your furniture.

Night Study by Maria V. Snyder

[returnpoint]

Η ώρα είναι εννιά και μισή όταν έχω πάρει για τα καλά τον δρόμο της επιστροφής. Tα καλοκαιρινά βράδια οι βόλτες με τον σκύλο μου συνοδεύονται πλέον από κόσμο στις πλατείες και τους πεζόδρομους της εκάστοτε γειτονιάς. Το παραπάνω είναι σαν μια επιστροφή στην εποχή που μεγάλωνε η γενιά που μεγάλωσε την γενιά μου. Όμως την ώρα που ακούω μια σπασμένη φωνή που δεν γνωρίζω να ζητά την προσοχή μου δεν είμαι ούτε σε πεζόδρομο, ούτε σε πλατεία. Είμαι σε ένα ξεχασμένο από το χρόνο αλλά παντοτινά οικείο στενό της Κυψέλης. «Κυρία».

Κυρία. Το ένστικτό μου βιώνει μια εσωτερική πάλη τον τελευταίο καιρό. Παλιά θα είχε στρέψει απευθείας το σώμα μου προς την κατεύθυνση από την οποία άκουσα την φωνή. Έστω από ευγένεια, σα να λέει, άγνωστε αναγνωρίζω την ύπαρξή σου, είσαι και εσύ άνθρωπος. Τώρα το νιώθω ανήμπορο να μου δώσει ξεκάθαρες οδηγίες. Αρκείται στο να μου υπενθυμίσει την χρονολογία΄8 μετά κρίσης.

Κυρία, επαναλαμβάνει η φωνή και ακόμα δε μου είναι ξεκάθαρο ποιος μπορεί να μου την απευθύνει. Αυτή τη φορά όμως γυρνάω να κοιτάξω το απέναντι πεζοδρόμιο. Δεν βλέπω κανέναν. Είναι σαν κάποιος να δοκιμάζει την ανθρωπιά που διατηρώ μέσα μου.

Στο μπαλκόνι του πρώτου ορόφου ακριβώς απέναντί μου συνειδητοποιώ ότι βρίσκεται μια φιγούρα που με παρατηρεί. Μια ηλικιωμένη κυρία στέκεται στηριγμένη στα κάγκελα. Τα μαλλιά της είναι σε κότσο θαρρείς τα τελευταία 20 χρόνια. Η ρόμπα της είναι μάλλον βελούδινη και έχει τα διπλά χρόνια από το χτένισμά της. Είναι και η ίδια ξεχασμένη στο χρόνο. Κάποτε η Κυψέλη είχε την αφρόκρεμα της καλής κοινωνίας. Τώρα η αφρόκρεμα έχει όλα τα φώτα του σπιτιού της σβησμένα.

Είναι Τετάρτη ή Πέμπτη; με ρωτάει. Θυμάμαι άξαφνα ότι πέρασα τουλάχιστον έναν χρόνο από τη φοιτητική μου ζωή χωρίς να γνωρίζω τι μέρα ήταν. Ήταν δύσκολος χρόνος. Οι μέρες μου δεν είχαν 24 ώρες. Ήμουν ξύπνια όσο ήταν απαραίτητο για να εξαντληθώ και να καταφέρω να ξανακοιμηθώ. Χωρίς να βγαίνω απαραίτητα από το σπίτι. Χωρίς ποτέ να κάνω τίποτα. Χωρίς να μου επιτρέπω να σκεφτώ τίποτα. Σήμερα είναι Παρασκευή, της απαντάω χωρίς να προσδίδω κανέναν χρωματισμό στη φωνή μου. Χωρίς να την κοιτάζω στα μάτια.

Εκείνη και εσύ δε μοιάζετε, μου λέει σκληρά αυτή η σπαστική φωνούλα που έχω μέσα μου. Μια άλλη φωνούλα της λέει να σκάσει, αλλά ξέρω ότι στην πραγματικότητα συμφωνεί. Δεν μοιάζουμε. Υπάρχουν βασανιστήρια που σου επιβάλει η κοινωνία και βασανιστήρια που επιβάλεις στον εαυτό σου. Ο βασανισμός είναι το μόνο κοινό σημείο. Κοιτάζω το σκύλο μου και φαντάζομαι τους μηχανισμούς στο απλοϊκό μυαλό του να του μεταφέρουν το σήμα. «Πάμε». Αυτός κινδυνεύει μόνο από τα βασανιστήρια της κοινωνίας. Μικρή παρηγοριά.

Ευχαριστώ, την ακούω να μου λέει καθώς απομακρύνομαι.

Στην αυλή του σπιτιού μου σήμερα δεν έχει κατσαρίδες. Έχει μόνο μια αράχνη. Μεγαλόπρεπη και σχεδόν αόρατη, σαν την κυρία στο μπαλκόνι. Δεν την σκοτώνω΄ δεν ενοχλεί κανέναν. Ακούς κοινωνία; λέω ψιθυριστά.

Οι κατσαρίδες επιβιώνουν σε όλων των ειδών τα εχθρικά περιβάλλοντα. Εγώ όχι.

Νιώθω σαν ένα είδος υπό εξαφάνιση σήμερα. Όμως ξέρω τι μέρα είναι και ότι αύριο θα νιώθω καλύτερα. 8 μετά κρίσης. Είναι σχεδόν κωμικό.

«Όχι για την κυρία στο μπαλκόνι». Η σπαστική φωνούλα μέσα μου θέλει να έχει πάντα τον τελευταίο λόγο. Της λέω να πάει να γαμηθεί.

[returnpoint]

Someday, we’ll run into each other again, I know it. Maybe I’ll be older and smarter and just plain better. If that happens, that’s when I’ll deserve you. But now, at this moment, you can’t hook your boat to mine, because I’m liable to sink us both.

Gabrielle Zevin (via quotemadness)