Burning Alive

When one is alone, the mind begins to eat itself from the inside out. Like the eternal Ouroboros, there is no beginning or end to the shallow pool of thoughts. The waters become still, muddy and confused. Relief comes in sleep, where only dreams can haunt. Yet morning comes like an onslaught. Nothing can defend you from the sun. It comes, forcing its light into you, invading the stillness of the stars until nothing else can be seen.

I was filled and yet empty. Unable to let go and yet I held onto nothing. Overwhelmed by the weight of my feeling and yet I was numb. Words fluttered like butterflies, always out of reach. Like a child, I clumsily chased their meaning in hope to find God encrusted on their wings. My touch could never grace the dust of their flight. Yet my feet could never be still. Like the girl and the red shoes, the dance was endless and it was only a matter of time before I grew weary.

To be alone, one must find stillness or be eaten alive. Four walls grow large with only your small spirit to hold like a caged bird. Sound is muffled by the silence. Hallways become endless mazes in which no end appears. When you are alone, you are left with only yourself for company. It’s wise to enjoy your reflection as it beats back at you. For enemies within your own mind become the shadows around every corner, the whisper in every room. The nightmares one leaves behind, skulk against the wall with no place to hide. Everything one is afraid of becomes a constant visitor at the door.

There is no place to hide. Butterflies become vultures, picking at my resolve. Left with hunger, they are restless. Yet I am all that is left. Bits of feathers stick to the blood as it warms in the sun. The bones are white, clean. I stare into the heavens as the sky clears. The storm is over. The clouds are gone and the light reveals the empty husk. I had been fooled into believing there was more. I had been fooled that I contained myth, magic, or mystery. Without the temperamental heart, I am empty secrets. I do not fear my own shadow. I am afraid of my own light.

When one is alone, they see only themselves. Faces distort until all are merely figments of one’s own psyche. Wars are waged against the invisible enemies. Landscapes change to suit one’s mood. The world becomes centered in one’s own loneliness. The sun beams brighter if the day is good. The rain sings a lullaby when one wishes to sleep. The snow stifles the feeling, when one wants to remain numb. The universal design is centered within you. Yet as the stars align their arrows against you, you can see the strings holding them up in the sky. You can see the seams lining the costumes of your many players. The cracks begin to show. You see the set for what it really is. You are a fraud, bent on reenacting your death. You are unable to let go of the wicked witches, the enchanted forests, the charming princes. There would be nothing left to warrant letting go.

The blood flakes off the bone. The wind picks up dried skin and hair. I am embedded in dirt. I remain as if waiting. My sockets gaze upwards to the sky as if I had never seen the sun. The moon is more familiar, her lucid madness dancing among the stars. Naked and strange, she howls with a smile and laughs as she bleeds. Her eyes appear as if asleep yet she is restless. Often she would creep into my room and steal me away. She revealed to me the many shades of black and taught me to scream as I cried to stifle the quiet. No one could shield themselves from her sorrow, her love, her madness. She whispered her secrets to me only to have me forget upon waking. Yes, I knew the moon. It was the sun that was a stranger. His quiet indifference confused me. I have often closed my eyes against him and yet his colors would become swollen under my lids. He made my heart race against its will until it leapt away from me. Yet he would not claim to love me. I could only guess.

To be alone, one cannot lie undetected. One cannot hide their secrets. Treasured photographs, veiled instability and clandestine shame are scattered amongst the dinner conversation. Each guest has a voice that cannot be stifled. Even the rattling of knives cannot distract from the pretenders. The game is undone before it starts. The seams are undone and the makeup was worn away. All that is left is a husk of rot and decay. All that is left is a choice. Can something grow from dirt? Can something grow from you? Or is it better to sink into the earth and let the world forget you? When you turn away from the world, it never stops watching you fall. You can hold your head and cry in the quiet of your room. You can scream to God inside the safe walls of your car. But you are alone. Desperation goes unnoticed and only you can save yourself.

I have seen faces in the candlelight, lit with myth and magic. I have loved by the light of the street lamps. I have seen God by the flickering votives. Love is simple when kept in secret. Yet by day, I am blind. With the sun in my eyes, I cannot see love yet it can see me. It sings in the wind even though I cannot hear it. Words like butterflies cling to bone. Wings like stained glass drape over the empty sockets to dry in the sun. The world, for a moment, is beyond me, unconstructed and strange. The ground becomes fluid beneath me, flooding the empty cavern of my mind, unearthing the shell from its grave. A thousand wings take flight. I am falling or perhaps I am rising. Yet all that I am certain of is that I can still see the sky and it is looking back.