Echoes Below

Lying in the secret stages of a new light. A secret bond beneath the memories of last year. It's everybody and nobody. Like pretty much everything, there's no secrets anymore. There's no hope, there's no fear. I look away in the hope that something new will appear. A list of love, longings and despair. The disparate dreams of a bruised ego broken into the summing up of lifeless decay. Your placement slices erotic motions in private reels. A dream may come alive but I'm feeling old and I don't know how to move on. A new destination would've helped because it's a secret that will be spent rejuvenating the tiredness that seeps into the fragmented life I've got living away inside. Every motion I speak of, kills the chance of that secret conversation we speak of. I wither and dither. To leak out in whispers in silent suffering.

If echoes were truly a dream, I would've vanquished the demons that live inside. Instead I'm left with dreams of a corruption of identities. Profit and loss, an inevitable part of daily life. I slowly come to terms with the rejection. My biggest dream became a nightmare of my own making. Taking pictures on smartphones, it was a religion, I knew only to myself. Part of my disconnection grew ever more. I still get my pills from there. Slyly though, there's a girl who passes on her discount to me. We seem to chat - a default of nationality. And in a default of my sexuality, I wonder how it would be if it were seen as an affair. It probably wouldn't, but the thought intrigues me. He's very nervous around me.....it's kinda funny, I suppose. The trapped anxiety of a waking nightmare, the sound of euros in tills being missed due to my own inadequacy to his expectations. Steamrollers my joy into a deathless agony. But I move on. Slowly. Through the trail of a snail, I...

I've always been riddled by a vague sense of that foreboding spiral. The great quantitative abyss that constitutes life. Days wash by without ever seeming to stick. At times I wonder if I'm a robot malfunctioning or just a hapless zombie waiting for the good guys to stick an axe to my head. I've never been good at figuring out which one is me. I suppose that's the point. The heightened anxiety that pervades in and around my life like secret spies tapping into my thoughts. Speech has become nullified. A context with which I cannot take part in any more. I wanted to sever my vocal chords but somebody got to me before I got the chance. I hadn't even made the decision as to whether it would've been a rope or a knife but you get the idea. I live for the days I go to hospital, I feel strangely alive there. They are the highlight of my life. Stranded on a bed, alone, with my eyes on the blue skies outside while the pain in my fractured wrist seeps out into the b...