No image.

Doomed beneath the light was a sure thought. (An educated guess. Doomed, she'd say. Doomed to never come back. Doomed as sure as the sky was falling in tears above.) The sound of her boots followed and guided her through the street. And out of her life. The wind resisted her... but what did it matter? Nothing would stop it. Not really. A decision was made and now days were going to fold accordingly. So the boots were a good idea she thought. Maybe not the cigarettes, but then again, who cares. Besides, these are good ones, the ones I truly like she chit-chatted with her self. The chit-chat was always there, but now, with the boots as a background and the rucksuck pulling her down while the cigarette let her fly, well, now chit-chat, wasn't such a bad idea.

.

I can see my self falling.

I feel me seeing me.

Makes me think, almost taste, the grasp. I could grasp the walls of darkness and stop.

Like always before,

nothing is there.

Ni lo intento, reacia, entre vaga y miedosa.

Me da miedo que mis manos no encuentren lo que buscan.

Me cansé y ya sé que hay nada.

that darkness eats all.

like an evil dictator,

that lives inside me.

.

¿Qué hago?

Mis creencias, truncas sin crecer. Mi confianza, atada a fuerza de locura.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i'm breaking, falling, shattering,

my false stability has broken and it's true self has come out.

It's a monster, if you believe. A monster that will look at you, show its teeth, push you to a corner, but will never touch you. Its breath burns you, its eyes will be mirrors to your most intimate self, they will struggle their way in and the air around them will cut you, but you won't bleed.

Because it's just your mind...

And there is no way of knowing which self is the truest.

escribirte el silencio.

.

I can't go through all this.

Why do you say that?

I can't!

Why?

Because I wanted to be a writer, that's all.

So?

I wanted to write about it all.

Everything that happens in a moment.

The way the flowers look when you carry them in your arms.

This towel - how it smells , how it feels...

it's thread.

All our feelings - yours and mine.

The history of it.

Who we once were.

Everything in the world.

Everything all mixed up.

Like it's all mixed up now.

And I failed.

I failed.

No matter which you start up with, it ends up being so much less.

Sheer fucking pride!

And stupidity.

We want everything, don't we?

I suppose we do.

-Richard a Clarissa, 'The Hours' (2002)