Themes for Disappearing


While taking a bath, the sound of wind chimes comes to me through the window and for some reason, I feel like crying. Closing my eyes, I see her dancing in a void, and the delicate beauty of it is reminiscent of the sensation of a moth’s wings tickling the insides of my clasped hands. She reaches out. She collapses. She blooms. Sometimes she scratches and when I prise open my fingers she’s not there and neither is the moth but the void is still near and as the wind chimes chime and the branches of the trees call my name she is still with me like the shadow she is. The days are long and the sky mostly empty and the hours consist of mundane work and memories and fire and the lips of women and the words they force me to write and the subtle humming of ghosts that watch me in my attempts at finding the right words to fit these feelings that come and go without warning. Sinking my head beneath the soapy surface of hot water, it’s like I too am in the void. It doesn’t last long, but for a few seconds, there’s no need for anything other than the visions in my head and the emotions that captivate me in their strange ways before they fuck off leaving me unable to fathom yet again what it means to be human. Sometimes I get so morose that nothing shakes me out of my funk. Sometimes I don’t do anything but lie in bed all day thinking about dying and how half of me is terrified about not existing while the other is secretly looking forward to what happens next. People interest me less and less the older I get. They always seem the same. No originality. No edge. Too self-absorbed with keeping up appearances while not caring about the soul, they go through life never daring to take a step back, and taking a step back is the only way you ever see things for how they really are. Which is why I like taking so many baths. It’s just me and my music and these restless thoughts and no one else. Except for her shadow, that is. Right now, she’s popping the bubbles down by my toes, and although it tickles, I let her do it just the same.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

33 replies »

  1. A beautiful collection of amazing words artfully arranged in just the right order by a master craftsman… would look like shite next to this piece. You inspire me to write better. Well, to attempt to try to write better.

  2. “Closing my eyes, I see her dancing in a void, and the delicate beauty of it is reminiscent of the sensation of a moth’s wings tickling the insides of my clasped hands.” Like those fleeting moments of joy themselves. . .

  3. I’m so…beside myself to have stumbled upon you. It’s so Plathesque to me, your words. Like the male Sylvia, and (you won’t know this, ’cause it’s in MY head) but I can’t get ‘into’ that many people’s work. Most of it does nuthin’ for me. But. This! Ahhh. Excuse me, I’m gushing in that gushy way that I find most unappealing in others.

    I needed to say this though. ❀

  4. As I read your words, I felt every emotion along with you…you tap the universal existential angst that we all feel. It’s ardent with life. Your words challenge and defy death’s door. They are alive with glorious energy.

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