DROWN

Is it normal that I just want to drown, in a pool of my tears mixed with whisky? That I just want to suffocate in the smoke I exhaled after burning the memories of the past on my blunt? No? It’s not?

Why does this feel so much like home then? Why does time intimidate me so much? Why does the panic that constricts my chest feel so intimate? So close to my being… Like a sibling. Why is anxiety grappling with my will and winning over it? Why does it pour cold water on my fire to live, to see, to believe?

Why am I always looking side to side, like a haunted girl in a dark forest? Why don’t I trust the possibility? Why do my sweaty fingers slip on keys everytime I try to open the door to what may be?

Why am I always looking outside at night? At the space between the stars? Why do I feel like that’s the perfect definition of me? The black blank space between shining stars? Why do I find comfort between brown pages and the bibliosmia of books? When at the same time feel an eerie silence when I sit between the pages?

Why does my own chest feel so lonely? Like an ancient palace or castle, devoid of any visitors? Why do I seem to cover the gap of want in my chest with words like cognoscenti, when these letters will never fill me up?

Why is my tongue laced with silence? Why does it refuse to wind up my truth into words? Why do I have so many blank pages and no words, when in my heart lies a chest full of epics and lore? Why don’t my emotion and will come in harmony to form a remarkable story?

Why are my fingers shaky, when I place the nib down to write? Why do I feel the external pressure pushing the nib forward, and not my pain, passion or plight? Why is the ink so faint, so light, when my iris is smoky and dark with emotion?

Why does the auditor in my brain spend so much time on my choices? Why does he tap the pen on his table in thought? Why doesn’t he make sense of the figures? Why aren’t they adding up? Why does he seem to be uncertain of my lack of a cross, or a plus; when it makes no sense to add? Why doesn’t the equal sign look equal? Why don’t recommendations fix the puzzle? Why do longevous opinions crumble to dust in my eyes?

Why is my name written on the walls of the Louvre, when at the same time, nobody can see it when I can and everyone can see it when I can’t? Why am I just as confused as that? Why do I look away when the crystal ball shows my future? Why do I look further away when the minute hand moves closer? Why do I buy so many watches yet remain afraid of their faces?

Why do I use so many question marks in life? When all my responses end in ellipsis and faded lines? Why does this crumble the pages of thoughts in my head and throw them at the walls? Why does it make my thoughts punch the walls and split their knuckles? And why does my heart feel the pain instead? Why do I feel like a lantern at daytime? When my light is similarly not cherished at night? And why does it seem needful to recite the Mea Culpa, the Mea Maxima Culpa? When I do not recognize the Pope?

Why do I paint my face in colors, like orange, yellow and red? Why do I smile at strangers and answer all their questions? When it doesn’t pique my interest? Why do I sing along to a song I don’t like? Why do I contribute to motions I don’t resonate with? Why do I carry a thousand balloons to a park with no children? Why, why do I buy so many sweets, when my friends have no taste buds? Why do I write so many songs for deaf people? And why do I itch to attract the blind?

Why does my eraser call to me right now? Why do I want to close my eyes again? Why do I feel the need to open the next bottle… Why is the urge so persistent to light the next blunt? Why? Why do I want to drown in these dark waters so bad? Why am I floating when I’m not calling for help? And why is no one coming when I do? Why is the surface tension so strong today, when the temperature of my skin is as high as the panic in my throat? Why am I here and not there? Why can’t this fast chariot halt to a stop? Why can’t I break the horse’s legs?

•