18.04.26
I've been off college for 2 weeks for easter break. in the middle of that i went to spain, and i got back a couple days ago. i wrote this on the plane back, after some bullshit with my parents (well, mum). i just want to go Home.
Why do i shake? Why is everything a blister?
Why does the sun, when it hits my skin, not make me glow like amber in the light? I wonder why instead it burns, turns red and boils, why it melts my skin so it moves like hot plastic, with bubbles of pink flesh and seeping blood.
Why is everything sharp? Why is everything fragile?
Why does every little push unbalance me, why do i always trip into the thorn bush? With thorns so sharp and so plenty, so dense and so thick, that climbing out takes forever, and when i get out every inch of my body has a cut and a pinprick of blood pooling at the gash.
Why am i so paralysed? And how am i running?
There is something seperate from my soul and from my mind but that is very much still me. He is paralysed, a statue made of stone or very old marble, marble thats not white anymore, that doesnt glisten or shine, that does not look like marble. People want him to move, they shout at him to move, to walk forward, they seem to think that he is not a statue, they see that he is lifelike, mistake the stone for skin, think a heart beats within him. But it does not. He cannot move, he cannot take a step forward, or wriggle his fingers, or tell them what he is. He cannot say to them “look at me, look at my cold white skin, touch me and feel my lack of blood and muscles, of bone and flesh. Look how my eyes cant move. I am not living like you. I am stagnant, and will be for ever. To walk forward as you do is impossible, no matter how hard i attempt to shift my feet.” they will never hear his words and they never notice what he cannot point out. Rather, they think him lazy. A man as living as them, as capable, who chooses forever to stand still, too lazy to walk forward. They repeat and repeat how they think him impotent, how uncaring he is, how deserving of the chips they leave in his body of stone, how he is bringing himself to rot, that in his stagnation he is nothing more than a cadaver. They think his silence is testimony to heir words. That he doesnt reply because he has lost and he knows, because he does not know how to answer truths. They do not realise his mouth is marble, that no matter how he wishes to answer, no sound will shake his vocal chords.
Would you break the legs of a statue so it could walk for you? Would you drill a hole in its mouth because you want it to speak?