Open doors

Through open doors the light busts in, begins
Its search for me and him, as if I
Do not know my sin, I crouch and hide my face.

Across the room, a ray of dust, I feel the chill and know
I must – in some way – shut the cursed things,
Before I catch the cold.

A voice outside its children calls, for supper now, as it is late
Already, if I close the doors –
The voices will be gone.

My hell will not be dark and hot, my heaven not be filled with light
This fright, which I cannot escape
Can I not shut it out?

He was here.

These open wounds, these bleeding holes,
Through which my sanity elopes, please,
Mother, let me close the doors
Before the cold can catch me.

Mother, am I normal?

Who knows what is normal? I know I don’t. I often catch myself thinking I must be crazy, crazy for having these thoughts and ideas, ones that, surely, nobody else can have. But – like I said – I don’t know, do I? Maybe everyone’s heads and hearts work the same way. If that is really so, and you are all like me, then we’re a sick bunch, that’s for sure…

One of the things about myself that bother me the most, is the fact that I am so hopelessly unable to let things go. Friends, family, dreams, things, everything I have ever lost that I wasn’t supposed to lose. And I cling to the memories of these things as if they were arms, dragging me out of water that would otherwise drown me. I truly am a memory-junky, although it is not much of a high that they give me.

Being unable to let go, sadly often also means being unable to move on. I find myself putting things on hold, seeing them as temporary, when, really, my “real” life, my old reality is long gone, dead even. I find myself not daring to open my heart to someone, because they won’t be in my future, I have all of that planned out with someone else. Only, that someone seems to have made a change in their schedule.

It is the same thing when I read a book. At least when it is a good one. I often cry at the end of it, simply because its over. Then I immediately start reading it over again, not to lose the feeling, the moment.

But moments disappear, they always do.

It is a very human thing, I suppose, lingering like that. It is one of the many things that make me what I am. But does it make me normal? Does it make me good? Not that the two necessarily have anything to do with each other… I just wonder sometimes. And I certainly do not know, I definitely do not understand.

All the sundays in the world

The emptiness after the guests’ leaving. The silence when the music stops. Something you’ve looked forward to, but that upon its arrival leaves a vacuum in your stomach. The friends. The ones you can always call, but you really can’t, can you?

She is the beauty of my life, the wings of my soul. Yet she makes me want to crush something, violently, against the pavement. She writes these letters without words.

This morning I woke up earlier.