Whispers

These past couple of nights have been the longest of my life. Such restlessness. Such fear. Such slow pace. Such isolation.

My mind has obscured me. I exist in dormancy. Exiled by my mind's treachery to an island far beyond the horizon. Messages in bottles crudely written in my blood and passion bob about restlessly in the waves. They do not stray far enough. They vanish into nihil. Nothing comes from this island. I lie on the sand. The tide comes closer and closer. My toes blister more and more through time. I look up into the sky and see clouds fly.

I had a dream once. I dreamt I was a cloud floating above a spectrum sea. All possible colors rippled and whirlpooled in these waters. Restless vessels struggled to stay afloat, to no avail. Within me was a peacock. She was beautiful. We both mingled as gas for an eternity. Time was lost and I felt present in this forever. Lucid too. I was perfectly aware that this was a dream. I knew very vividly that this peacock was nothing more than an apparition of my sleeping mind. Despite this, I let my mind embrace this intimacy as if it were really so. We kissed, danced, and whispered in infinity for infinity. I felt what it was like to be genuinely close. Then I woke up.

Here I lie, on my island. The clouds leave monstrous shadows on the infant waves. The sandcrabs descend to greater shadow. I look up at these clouds. Though my ears fail to comprehend this, I know that whispers dance within these clouds. Much too high are these clouds. The softly spoken intimacy does not transmit to me. I'm much too low.

In searching for these whispers in the past, I have found nothing but the great masquerade. Veils of intricate design hiding the tears and the screams. The eyes tell a story of desperation, and the words are emitted like the keys played by a pianist who feels nothing at all. The skin of humanity is not worn. We hide behind personalities, fabrications. We are clothed. We are the clothed beings. Our naked selves hide in panic, for taboo has scared them away. Refuge is taken in the mist of conformity and familiarity.

During this masquerade though, some sneak away giggling. Some remove the masks and the fabrications. Some turn to gas among one another and seep through the veils. Among the clouds, as the clouds, they whisper, not shout. There have been times, short bursts, where I look down and see my fingers steaming and dissolving into the sky. There have been times, short bursts, where this steam quickly mingled with the steam of another. Masks aside, personalities aside, a subtle little dance. This is fleeting. This doesn't fully satisfy my steam self. Perhaps my dreams have made my standards too high. This is just one of the many ways in which they've estranged me.

I had a nightmare once. This was more recently then that dream. That dream was years ago. This nightmare was days ago. I dreamt I was killed, yet my soul still lived inside of me. My body was hollow. Nothing in it but stacks of restless boxes. I wandered this warehouse for an eternity, every few moments I was ridiculed and attacked by people I knew abruptly erupting from these boxes. When it grew to be too much, I awoke into sleep paralysis. There was no escape. There was no compromise. This lasted forever. Forever. Forever. In this time, I sailed away. Thousands, millions, billions, trillions of miles away from anybody. Everybody. Then I woke up on this island.

I want nothing more than to sail back. I want nothing more than to be the drunkard at the great masquerade. Making a fool of himself and not knowing it. Occasionally and casually taken by the hand and turned into a cloud. I never want to be a full solid ever again. My dreams have made this something I cannot abide by not having. I think it is finally ripping me to shreds. It is killing me. Killing me. I feel absolutely nothing at all. Nothing. This post mitigates nothing.

This has been heavily concentrated since the very dawn of 2011. It was at the beach when I first decided that my centralized goal was to turn to steam and dance with another. Splashing in the waves, I felt intimate with my fears. In my heart ignited a smoldering ember. I wanted this with mankind too. Seldom have I had this. The ember burns me. My pain reflex, as if flicking a finger away from the flame, has been going on for months on end. The pain reflex is the pursuit of this closeness, which is in vain. Two reasons, the powers that be make it impossible because of this reason or that reason, and because my brain has forced me into a state of isolation. Deep, dark isolation. I can't stand it anymore. I just can't. All of my creations this year feel empty to me now, because my pursuit is too absolute and full of itself. Really, for a fellow aiming to achieve selflessness, I'm pretty fucking selfish.

I've given up. I'm too far away. One can only shout so long. If I can't be close to others, I will instead learn to bask in my distance through embracing this heartache. It'll be there either way so I have no choice.  My mind has insisted upon this being my abode. My dreams are winning. I will learn to bask in this if it means losing every drop of blood I have. I have no choice... and I have a feeling it isn't going to work.

There is so much more I want to say. There are things said here that I want to say differently. Because of the culture I live in, I have to be vague about certain things. I need to sugar coat my sentences. I can't be direct. I certainly know how much this culture loves coats of sugar. I'll try to sum it all up like this...

I had a dream once. I was close. I was intimate. I was steam. Then I woke up.