This Is Not A Wish

The sun sets solemnly, visibly indifferent through the trees upon the hill. Light is fractured by an abundance of leaves that sway in the breeze. It’s warm outside, and the day is old. Hours pass, comforting, mocking. Dust settles upon tired skin. Yawning, collapsing and daydreaming whilst everyone moves on regardless. Colours fading, thoughts succumbing. The sky draws in, drowning the happiness of all those that know not of magic. They curse the end of days. They sleep until the time has come to wake, when everything is clear once more. Oh, how I hate their pitiful ways. Moonlight is what I long for. Darkness and shadows. Moments of stillness, tranquility. There are no monsters in the dark, for they exist only in the mind. I’m not afraid of what lurks at the end of the bed, or what could be hiding in the attic. There’s nothing there. No killers in the garden. No unspeakables rising up ready to devour as the moon shines through the clouds. All that’s to be feared, is the unimaginable depths of the mind. The unknown terrors and arrows that can attack invisibly, at any given moment. They inflict without reason, day or night. Escape is impossible. But, when the stars shine in the sky and everyone else is asleep, I find solace in solitude. Loneliness is comforting. In a darkened room, I am in utero.

I find the games people play uninteresting. The cheapness of sex and lust. Reduced to currency, little more than a banal time waster. That’s a real horror show for you right there. Intimacy, so vulgar and hollow like bones. I’d rather make love to a washing machine, then to fuck to fill an hour or two. To be human, is to be the worst kind of punishment you could ever dream of. The sadness of it all, the acts born out of a desire to be loved. The need to feel wanted. To forget who and what you are.. To feel the dismal affections of another, even though you know the score and it makes you below zero. Maybe I’ve been just as bad, but now all it does is embarrass me. Everything makes me feel nauseous. It deadens me to think that really, I’m just like them. Just as cheap, and just as low. Oh the pain of being such a hypocrite. Of being such an arsehole. 

A hundred thousand wings, circling the flame of a candle. Dancing in thin air, as the rain comes down hard.

Ways of seducing. Tricks, performed like magicians. Tricks to get you horny like a toad. But all I want is to grow my beard and drink some wine. And write. And feel the warm embrace of a woman who loves me, and whom I love back. No war, and no agendas. No pretences either, just a little truth. A little something to melt iron hearts. Beneath this aged skin, I’m just a simple boy. I don’t want to rule the world, nor be a millionaire. I don’t want to live the dream that generations of insects surrender themselves to completely. Spare me the bullshit, for there’s too much bullshit, and not enough soul. Lies, gleaming like fake white teeth. American dead, and hemorrhaging celebrities. Glory holes, and a pretty city dress. Whores and horses. Galloping without shame. Like piano music, and photographs of childhood smiles. Summer, spiders, and laying in the garden looking up at shooting stars. Stumbling through the park in the early hours. Lost fragments, where the laws of suffering ceased to be. Shards of shards. Lightness, and unbecoming. Kisses, and hands on her hips as she feeds you her secrets.

Pathways, dimly lit and secluded. Wide open spaces.

The scent of heat on her neck, and the tears she sheds all in the name, of love.

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