Of That Boy and Time

Is it possible? 

That all this loneliness of mine is due this: I still love you. 

You, who is so in my past I no longer recognise myself as there. 

You, who I know of a thousand flaws. 

You, who I hate and yet never do. 

You, you, you. 

Is it possible? 

After all this time and with so little paper? 

After having been through nothing which in this numb world is a lot. 

After having loved when I knew naught.

How can it be? 

Only a few pages we read together 

and the memories are alive.

In the midst of a blur, as my eyes are blurry of the past, 

and the glasses only focused when your eyes were concerned. 

How can it be? 

That you, who I hold so dear and yet so cold in my shoulder 

still stir up such things in me. 

You who I hate and despise. 

You who I find pathetic, 

worst of all you, who has turned me pathetic. 

Who has replaced my pride with crime. 

Is it you I am waiting for? 

Is that why today my hand holds none? 

Why my nights are awakened and my days asleep? 

Is love such a torture that will never reward me? 

Again, Can I base myself on so little? 

Can a building stand on one small pillar? 

Can a deck of cards rise on top of only one? 

Can my world revolve over that short time with you? 

And what life gives me but a frown. 

A frown in the shape of a smile. 

Darkness in light disguise. 

As I lay here. 

Awake in my sleep. 

Asleep in my wake. 

Take me. 

Take me wherever it is that isn't here. 

Or take the thoughts of you away from me. 

Rid me of my imagination. 

Or of the faint memory of you. 

Or of the feelings that attach to it like limpets on a rock, 

sucking strongly and fighting the violent currents of waves from angry seas. 

And the waves are all these others. 

Other eyes that look your way. 

And even as the waves are friendly to me, 

are synched in my soul and steady, 

no anger comes from clashing against you, rock. 

Anger comes from seeing the rock stay strong. 

Watching the curvy waves, smiling, winking. 

And I as that limpet. 

In the middle of a current that fights both ways.

Like sword and wall, I wish to let go. 

And yet I cannot.

I suck and stick to a rock that my brains hate. 

To waves that my brains pain.

All just to satisfy a beating idiot that strains me. 

And as my smart, fast mind knows it. 

Still I stand still. 

Still I watch as life rips these things away from me. 

Still here I am. 

Sitting, standing, even walking. 

All in Stillness. 

And even moving winds can't change me. 

Even blowing hard. 

Even as a million winds clash against me, 

and my hair flies with the current's strength. 

Even as I enjoy these winds, 

the winds are not enough

to rid with the flying hair the beating idiot. 

They are not enough.

Pathetic, as I am. 

Pathetic as I dread to be. 

As I can't help but being. 

Stillness against the movement of time.

Time, uncontrollable time. 

Time that is always moving, 

constant, steady. 

And though at time in eyes is fast or slow 

or both at the same hour. 

It never is one or the other. 

It is always the same,

constant, steady.

And it is only in our stupid slow and fast perspectives that time changes. 

And we are its slaves. 

We cannot do anything to it, 

and it can do tortures or wonders to us. 

Whatever it wishes for we are its slaves. 

A thousand years can pass 

and still we feel as none have gone at all. 

We perish. 

We rot. 

Slowly and excruciatingly so. 

And we are it's prey. 

And time wins 

and as fools that we are 

we think we have a standing chance, 

we think of it as war. 

What war can we have with the owner of our souls? 

What war can we have? What fight? 

With that whip that flows ever constant, 

steady immovable and uncontrollable. 

We are it's slaves and we will forever be so. 

And as it controls me and us. 

Still I hang on to a previous moment 

when all seemed under my control 

precisely because it wasn't. 

Because as things went wrong or right 

I was not to thank or blame 

and therefore I was free. 

And I didn't ponder on what time did, 

I let it dictate me as I pretended to dictate it. 

Half hours or full hours seeming such long times 

when now only seconds appear. 

And I remember you as you were then. 

Flying and smiling, 

blonde hair and matching eyes, 

lit in the lit memories of my past. 

Not as a slave of time, 

but as the reason for it. 

Every moment seemingly a favour to you. 

And even now, as time has darkened us. 

I still feel that as I am a slave to time, 

I am a slave to you. 

Oh God of time. 

Give me one more day to treasure you. 

Give me one more day to write my pages on.

One more second to put in one more line. 

Give me one more image of you.

Reviews

[Created to Write]

Deep. Really deep. And long. Cool.