i would like to become a lump of coal.
individuals, the smallest, no longer divisible, mingling, crowding. crowd is no longer a noun, but a verb, existing in the present, acting and interacting.
pub. beer. glasses full of liquid dreams and aftermath of daily rituals of carving/mangling self. wanting to, striving to, trying to be what one is compelled to be, now left with only half of a self, trying to mend, before the new day begins with fresh wound. dosing ourselves with the medication that is stronger than opium- the belief that things will turn out. or even better, that things no longer matter.
amnesia. amnesia for the mind. for the body. for the future. for the present.
in conversations lost in noise and movements, ideas spring up, bounce of the shields of one another, the guises we put up to be happy and content. the guise that is strong enough to fossilize oneself into.. a shell that one may no longer realize where or how it all started. growing roots out of our feet, becoming part of the ground, eventually, becoming a rock. a breathing rock.
the smiles and shards of laughters from the crowd, as we sway from one side to another, in perfect symmetry within self- though we no longer sway in sync. all lost in... like half-harden wax pool from a candle that it's hitting it's last minutes of illumination. not solid, not liquid, not burning, not illuminating. just a simple aftermath. not a waste, but not particularly useful.
sharp silvery pitches of trumpet cutting through the chatters, small talks, the choked smiles of... me. of you. of us. in the midst of busy swirling pool of colours and we are all hypnotized in the drum beats, in that anxious moment from the anacrusis to the very next beat, knowing that one beat must die in order for the next one to exist.
is this all it's about? about having a good time? what is a good time? i feel like one small fish that got sucked into a current, now swimming with a school of different fishes. moving as they are, travelling through the time and space at the same speed and direction as they all are. not even trying, starting to blend onto the one of the many. the faces in half smiles- that small curvature on the corner of the lips, lips that no longer speaks anything from the inside, but reflecting and passing from the outside, just like volleying a ball in a simple game.
i am a spectre, a spectre of my own self, refusing to let go of the day, stepping away from the maelstrom of the night swimming of this particular school fo fishes. going with the current, into the deeper, colder part of the sea. until. until there is no more light or until we all hit the bottom, having to just rise again. i am here but i am not here. i am present but i am running away.
i stand, building an invisible cocoon,
watching the joyride pass me by, in the hazy world, outside of my own chrysalis.
may be my own salvation will come. long after i am done fossilizing. turning into stone. a concrete form of carbon. then may be i could free self and become a moment in present. like coal that burns now, memories of ages and pressures and things that have been forgotten long ago.