The Scientist

When I get home, I’m going to write to you. Let out these words that are creeping around my head. They won’t come out as they should; these words that make loco fishwife. I don’t like that I should tell. I feel like this space is haunting me, taunting me, but I feel like this space is empty of me still.

Every time I feel this way, I remember the words; to never forget that I have it all. I remember that I have it all. I can’t remember what it all is. I want badly to remember. What is it all? What it all is. I know my head knows. But it won’t tell. Not this time. Not any time when I need it to. In that way, my head mirrors you. And the things left unsaid. Always unsaid. Giving my mind space to create. Create things to hurt. But it does not matter. Does it. I ask myself. Tell myself. That it should not matter. But it does. Does it?

I want here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t feel here. Unwanted. Unloved. I don’t want this space. But I will stay. Because I want here. I wish here was different. Warmer. I wish this space could love. Make me feel like its love did not lie. But it doesn’t. I feel. Strange. Stranger.

I say speech makes loco, but do these electronic words fare better? I need new words. Yours. Mine.

This is neither space nor time for this. But it’s never space or time till it’s choking me. Till the winds whirl and it’s all a jumble I mumble through; emerging scarred and wrong on the other side.
Tell me, my love, am I making any sense here? I think not. Coldplay says it better. The Scientist.

You see, I’m stick drawing and weak of mind, holding off a requiem, and seeking a resurrection. But you know that already.
You’re stick drawing but better. Always better than me, stronger, straighter lines, less imperfect.

It’s like meditation; the only thing I can think about is what I shouldn’t think about. That’s all i do, think… and want.
In the end, I am seer; telling this before it came –“they are just fucking words, innit? Breaking, barely holding, cementing”, breaking once more. Right? Breaking this soul.

And I, I’m sad. And fishwife, loco fishwife; screaming, and lashing, and flailing, and trying to build back, and failing… failing so bad, and falling. I am weak, and tired, and sniffling, and tired of bright eyes. I’m stumbling, and walking streets and not looking, stumbling, in my head, in my being, my fucking soul. I’m memory; of lessons taught but not learnt.

And I am envy; of calm, apart. You.

It’s heavy fuji music blasting, and alleluia, and tomtom beats, and allahu akbar, and fierce winds. It’s chaos; a reflection of my soul. It’s a beggar, and a wish horse.

Finally, I am child; regressed to eight and you pushing me off a swing set, and hurting, but seeing you jaunt around the place. I am child, putting on my ‘it did not pain me face’ so that when you ask, how are you? I smile, and say, I’m very fine. You? And hope you don’t notice the stuttering symphony playing in my head.

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