(no subject)
A state of novacaine cheeks and wind up music boxes.
I'd like it back, please. If you just don't mind.
I'd like the grey faced moon.
I'd like the frosty blue and aqua.
The white bed sheets and the darkwood bed.
The cold floor and ornamented carpet.
The smell of fresh and old.
A room I've never been in.
A state of everything. Nothingness.
Of black and of white.
That sense and that place with many different sides all in one.
There is no choosing.
Just iron handles and tall ceilings. Windows with white undercurtains.
And black and red velvet over the top.
A place that only exists during night. When my past is alive in me.
When my conscious is muddled and doesn't interfere.
I'm almost alone. Almost because I am waiting with no expectation of time.
I am.
But the door is open.
And the long lost owner of my dream can enter any time.
Because while the doors and handles are heavy, the covers thick and dark, I am light.
I am weighed down by nothing.
There is no passion. Love lust hate fear jealousy. None of it touching the hem of my nightgown.
Not even gender. No specification of any kind.
I do not love.
I do not lust or hope.
I nothing.
But that music box plane spins lament.
Lament for itself and the circumstances that retreat me to it.
It spins and pings its ancient melody of soft tears that dry cold and meaningless.
It weaves my soul as old as itself around its mechanic wheels. And I store myself.
The human needs the human.
But how can inhuman live in the human?
How can what has been claimed as limited in emotion be considered human?
How does 'I' exist if I am truly not as they are?
I do not want love.
I do not want touch, and attachment.
Please, I ask for aloneness and observation.
Enjoyment of the senses that doesn't involve feelings or trust.
Wilderness.
Unspecified simplicity that will tell you a story of the feelings I no longer want.
And that room.
That cool room full of lament and music in the cracks of silence.
My skin has no shade. No scars, marks, or prejudice.
No predestination of who I am to be.
No outcome.
No time.
No marks of self abuse.
No time.
No time.
No time.
Black eyes.
Shapeless hueless hair.
Inhuman existence.
No beauty.
No ugliness.
Because if there is no opinion then there is no need for these things.
There is need for nothing.
Only living...
Maybe.
Just living and breathing for lament in the air of a music box.
I'd like it back, please. If you just don't mind.
I'd like the grey faced moon.
I'd like the frosty blue and aqua.
The white bed sheets and the darkwood bed.
The cold floor and ornamented carpet.
The smell of fresh and old.
A room I've never been in.
A state of everything. Nothingness.
Of black and of white.
That sense and that place with many different sides all in one.
There is no choosing.
Just iron handles and tall ceilings. Windows with white undercurtains.
And black and red velvet over the top.
A place that only exists during night. When my past is alive in me.
When my conscious is muddled and doesn't interfere.
I'm almost alone. Almost because I am waiting with no expectation of time.
I am.
But the door is open.
And the long lost owner of my dream can enter any time.
Because while the doors and handles are heavy, the covers thick and dark, I am light.
I am weighed down by nothing.
There is no passion. Love lust hate fear jealousy. None of it touching the hem of my nightgown.
Not even gender. No specification of any kind.
I do not love.
I do not lust or hope.
I nothing.
But that music box plane spins lament.
Lament for itself and the circumstances that retreat me to it.
It spins and pings its ancient melody of soft tears that dry cold and meaningless.
It weaves my soul as old as itself around its mechanic wheels. And I store myself.
The human needs the human.
But how can inhuman live in the human?
How can what has been claimed as limited in emotion be considered human?
How does 'I' exist if I am truly not as they are?
I do not want love.
I do not want touch, and attachment.
Please, I ask for aloneness and observation.
Enjoyment of the senses that doesn't involve feelings or trust.
Wilderness.
Unspecified simplicity that will tell you a story of the feelings I no longer want.
And that room.
That cool room full of lament and music in the cracks of silence.
My skin has no shade. No scars, marks, or prejudice.
No predestination of who I am to be.
No outcome.
No time.
No marks of self abuse.
No time.
No time.
No time.
Black eyes.
Shapeless hueless hair.
Inhuman existence.
No beauty.
No ugliness.
Because if there is no opinion then there is no need for these things.
There is need for nothing.
Only living...
Maybe.
Just living and breathing for lament in the air of a music box.