i’m not sure if you were
the lighthouse
or me
but i know there was light –
and then there wasn’t.
a bit like birthday candles,
only darker –
but birthday candles,
we blow them for a reason.
a wish.
a purpose.
happy birthday.
i wish you’re happy, wherever you are.
sometimes,
i talk to you
in my sleep –
it’s not alarming,
your presence is frequent
in my dreams,
and my subconscious longs
for your existence
it’s when i talk to you
when i’m awake,
that i am scared
the most –
and writing to you
does nothing
to dissolve
the terror.
something is sitting on my chest this morning –
it won’t let me get up, and it makes my coffee hard to swallow –
i’m trying, but it’s heavy
and stuck above my stomach
it brings me foggy thoughts and
darkens my surroundings
is it the bedsheets? is it your ghost?
if i get rid of it, where does it go?
sometimes when i wake up
i squeeze my eyes tightly,
and open them again –
as the truth of some dreams
is more violent
than the waking reality
i’m running towards me –
i’m dysphoric
and impatient;
drawing my world
and colouring out of the lines.
it’s taking too long
and i haven’t learned to wait.
my nightmares become thoughts
that hunt me through the day –
in my sleep i’m angry,
so people are angry at me
i’m sad,
so people are leaving;
i’m talking in my sleep
unfathomable words of choked whimpers
the world is destroyed,
and my world follows –
i cannot be free,
for my dreams are my reality.
“So, should I call you Alex now?” he asked, in a sceptical yet intrigued frown.
“Yes p-lease” I said eagerly.
“Okay then, Alex. Take care of yourself. It won’t be easy, but it will pass. Come and see me.”
I thanked him, and we hugged.
It was a fatherly hug. One I’ll never forget.
—
Life is ironic.
And unexpected.
And most of the times, in a bad way.
I’m so, so, so sorry.
And it sucks.
And I’m running out of words again.
