There's someone in my head...
Midday Moon (Loonie):
Today I’m locking myself in a room.
It’s cold in it. I do not care.
Just me, and a pencil, and some paper.
Today, I must take heed of the voices.
Today I must… write.
Time is passing me by faster than I could ever have imagined, cold day after cold day, death is one inch closer than yesterday, crawling silently on her velvet feet, and you can hear the tingling of her sickle as she walks by…
And then, suddenly it’s dawn and the first pale daylight strokes your curls, and pinches your eyelids, shaking nightmares from your emerald eyes.
And so on, not even using you the courtesy of giving you some time to catch your breath, your strained eyes reflect in turn another sad, mad reality, which you can’t wake up from.
And the alienating smell of the mature wheat and poppy fields reaches barely your senses, behind closed eyes, in an occasional, suffocating summer dream.
But, as you run through the fields, you fall, and they stand nearby, kicking your sides, telling you to get up and run again, run for your life, for you’re in danger, run boy, listen to this… run… never stop… run…
I will never forget that night, never, never until I die.
His body shook violently, pervaded by shivers, his jaw lingered, motionless, his fingers covered in deep bites.
“Stay with me, stay with me…” he was begging in a weak, never ending singsong.
I held him tight, scared, as he was morphing under my eyes.
And still I feel my eyes growing damp, to remember his screams, his pleads, his monologues speaking total nonsense.
And still I shudder, writing these words.
And he needed me, in the darkness, at the top of his lungs, he was screaming my name, he was calling for me, me.
And my breath became shallow, as I heard different voices calling me, and the blood turned ice cold in my veins, as I realised I was hearing them myself.
And the morning after I found myself curled up in a corner, a paranoiac in his padded cell.
Dry, thirsty lips and scratches all over my arms, maybe myself, maybe him, maybe the ghost.
Pale as a corpse, with the pavid expression of who had looked death in her empty eyes.
He had.
And he was fascinated, turned on.
Like this, he had gone away, eloped with her, pale dawn after pale dawn.
But his gaze, his smile still were so naïve, so childlike, unlike mine.
That’s how he’ll never change, my little boy child.
At the same time, he, with a beaming smile shining on his lips, was languidly opening the blinds of the windows, with the innocence of a little boy.
For a moment, just for a miserable moment, I thought the past night was only a bad dream…
But no, it wasn’t.
“It is a wonderful day. What are you doing thrown there?”
Just what you make me do…
And the wheat and poppies rippled at the gentle, warm breeze.
He blew on the cold glass, fogging up a little spot and started to trace intricate patterns with his thin finger.
Who knows how was it like in his crazy world made of clichés, rejection and cold indifference…
He stopped, looking at the wet labyrinth he had just designed, then swept it off with a dreamy sigh.
He kept on looking outside, his eyes focused on a remote point of the horizon, his lips slightly parted, his breathing was soft, but not totally normal, and the serene expression on his face had left for an enigmatic frown.
“Roger…” he almost whispered, yet his voice was admirably steady, his eyes didn’t move from that landscape out of the window.
I felt my pulse speeding, for no apparent reason.
“W-what?” I managed to say after a while, keeping my eyes low, I didn’t want to look in those magnetic, mesmerising eyes.
Oh…how did I get this slushy?
I felt him turning around, I heard the brushing of his clothes against the window pane, I felt his steps, deaf, on the wooden floor, then… he kneeled down by my side.
I still didn’t dare to lift my gaze, I believe I could have even covered my head with my arms. I wasn’t really aware of my moves.
I’ve always been of a quite aggressive temperament, but I could not control myself, against that wonderful sheepish eyes.
His fingers lightly touched the skin of my forearms, they were wet, fresh…
“Roger look here… look at me…” I noticed he was smiling lovingly, again.
“Let’s put a record on, you want?” “Yes, why not? A record…” I said tiredly
He got up and headed for the big pile of vinyl, he unwrapped one and put it in the player, with a grin.
I rolled my eyes and smiled, as I recognized the Beatles.
He smiled back at me, and returned to his window, giving me the back.
The smile gradually faded off my face after a while, as, all of sudden, I noticed him frown again.
I didn’t look away, I knew he was about to say something, he, in fact, opened his mouth and sucked in a breath, but didn’t speak.
But still, I was waiting…
“…The record is just an excuse, right?”
This words echoed in the room.
And they were mine.
Distant, but mine.
But still, there was no sound in the room, but those silly, yet catchy music, he loved so much.
I bit my tongue, squeezed my eyes shut
Death is something that the living estrange with a sigh, a shrug or an “I’m sorry…”
Here is the difference, the bound between two worlds. An expressed, but not felt remorse.
Somehow a void, an emptiness, like the one in Death’s the dark eyes.
“Would you miss me at all?”
And time was passing us by, vinyl after vinyl, and the needle of the gramophone was turning, turning, turning.
Yes, Syd, I miss you and it’s all that I’ve got.
So I jumped on the Floyd slash bandwagon as well.