Sunrise comes
But I don't know why;
When it's day
I'd like to try
A number game
I've played for years;
It's six to stay,
And zero is near.

Haunted House

Locked away inside these crumbling remains are a story of a past and a life that I mostly look back on fondly, but sometimes wish I left behind -- it all depends on how forlorn the present finds me. Sometimes, the ghosts amongst the assorted junk I see all around say: now you remember when life was real. Whatever strides I imagine I have made, they seem to come undone in a few seconds amongst these inanimate reminders. I think back to days and nights spent in supplication for an escape out of the shell I had found myself in, and am forced to ask myself, what has really changed? Sometimes I think it better to leave these doors locked and just walk away. No matter how torrid the present may seem, at least it offers the illusion that the future is not fixed.

Paradoxically, this is also the site of what for the last several years has been my haven against arguably an even deeper hell. When I'm doing reminiscing on how awkward the past me was, I think about how happy he was too. All said and done, I found myself here, and while there were passing phases of sorrow, looking back on it now they seem like the golden years. I can't help but wonder what the person who lived here would say about the person who visits on occasion, going through roughly the same routines but with each action made a little heavier. It's the story of my life, hopping from one low to another.

Blessed now with the experiences that let me fully flesh out a host of regrets, I take pause to think as to what I wish I had done differently. Not much, truth be told. Perhaps I wish that I had the foresight to venture outside my room more, to realise there is a world outside the one contained in my head. But that's pique, because I know I was quite content most days. I console myself with the thought that there is really no guarantee that anything else I did would have seen me fare better. No, it seems that all roads lead to perdition.

Does all of this make up a life? I suppose it must, no matter what went on in them. There were good times, bad times, but mostly just time passing. What we look back on is what we choose to forget. Who would have thought that this is how it would end up? The threads that make up a life all scattered across the globe. A mind wrecked in the process. Whatever of myself that is left here are those pieces discarded along the trail we believed to be towards something better. Whether that is what stands here today, I cannot judge. What to make of it all? Never give yourself to a time that has passed.

I haven't done one of these in a while. Now I remember why I stopped. Another addition to the endless catalogue of things that remind me of a specific incident, even though expressed embarrassingly poorly.

---

The last time
I lowered my eyes,
Shrugged my shoulders,
Muttered my thanks.
"It is nothing,"
I cried,
But the pride in their eyes
Lingered.

Yesterday was a long time
But I can still remember.

Because this time
It was not me
Who made their eyes glow.
"It is nothing,"
I whispered;
Either way,
I knew I was wrong.

Why march on?
Let's find a quiet place
To set up camp
Call it a day
Forever.

Should I speak
Of better times ahead
Remind me if you please
Of all those times
I said those words before; yes,
The future is a disease.

I found out I was really no one

Not that I ever thought I was worth anything, so I must clarify why I found this realisation upsetting. There's a difference between knowing that you are destined for anything great, and knowing that you are not going to get what minor slice of happiness you think everyone is owed. I thought there was space enough for me in some quiet corner of heaven, with a friend (or more) to keep company. It took me some time to realise that whatever stay I had there, it was just as a worthless tourist.

Suspension

Whenever I caught wind of what was going on, I was torn. On the one hand, it seemed smartest to leave the phone turned off, go out perhaps, and generally pretend that I was totally oblivious to what was afoot. In the off-chance that things got really bad, I had to prepare beforehand as to what statements I would make. I would profess complete ignorance, of course, but admit my concerns that things would turn out this way. No one could accuse me of negligence, I told myself. But at the same time, I knew all this was only delaying the inevitable. Much better to get it over with, to see just how bad things were. I would turn on the phone with a minor tremble of my hands, and spend the next minute or so in the opposite end of the house, just hoping I would come back to a blank screen. When I returned, invariably I would it be as I feared: confirmation. My heart would sink and pulse quicken. Reading that missive would leave me with nothing to do but lie down, waiting in terror for the next installment. Once an hour or so had passed - the window of opportunity past - I would somehow get up and try to pretend the whole thing never happened. Until the next time.

Thinking on those times, I feel inclined to ask whoever cares to listen whether I'm owed some of those hours back. But if once I thought that was what a just world demanded, now I'm not so sure. Indeed, I think there was a lesson I had to learn the hard way: no one has the slightest plan on saving you from your own choices. "Wish that I knew what I know now..."

There is a shocking lack of beauty in my life. How do I correct this? There are many things that bring me pleasure. But I can't help but feel that without strong personal relationships, there is always going to be a hole gnawing away that no amount of steel pedal, comedy, or gaming bliss can fill.

The rule of the game is that a move, once played, cannot be overturned. As these things go, this seemingly arbitrary dictum is only a source of frustration to those who feel their winning hand was unfairly denied by a seemingly trivial misstep. Once the screaming and crying is over, it is worth asking whether the rule teaches one anything after all. Well, take no move for granted, most obviously. Perhaps as obviously, a game one can't lose doesn't deserve its name.

1) The Triffids, "Wide Open Road". Sometimes I listen to a song after a long time, and I try to remember the initial thrill I had on first hearing it. In general, I find this impossible, even by my obsessive life-cataloguing standards. There is a class of songs for which I can do a bit better, which are ones that prompted me to write a response, or at least an acknowledgement to them on first listen. Here, that urge is not only remembered, but resurrected. It reminds me of how remarkable it is that we have have these catalysts for either germinating or awakening certain strands of thought and feeling within ourselves. The former is rarer, and the latter involves a complex marshalling of moods, ideas and emotions that would otherwise pass us by, drowned as they are in the sea of consciousness. Any form of art, but in this context lyric or song writing, is all the more remarkable in how the artist finds a way to capture these delicate, gilded things, and hold in their hands an artifact that stands firm against time and its servants, one which divines these same truths for anyone else privileged enough to get the chance to hold it.

The first sight of her pulled me into another world, one which I am still trying to escape from. At least, that's what I would like to say. In truth, it's not the world that has changed, just my place in it. While externally everything is as it should be, since she made her entrance, all that I used to perceive may as well have happened to another person. Skeptical as I am of a glorious reunion with that past life, I can't say that I have no hope altogether. But time is not on my side.

How could one person cause a person to break in two? All she did (with ease) was, through her presence, simply release from inside me a doppelganger that I never knew existed. While we share many things, a soul is not one of them. Each time I hear a call from the old world, this parasite tries to drain it too, desperate to compensate for its missing core. It is an ashamed admission that this husk has nonetheless managed to best all of my attempts to overthrow it.

On certain quiet nights, as I pause to reflect, I try to play back moments that left an impression on me, most of them likely only inhabiting my head and no one else's. But I deliberately avoid anything to do with her. Partly it is because of how she has seen me on the road to self-damnation. Yet there is also an element of me wishing to pretend that things are the same as they've always been, that it's still the same pair of eyes that sees and understands everything around him. If I were to concentrate really hard, I think, maybe I would be able to get back to familiar surroundings. On other not-so-quiet nights, though, the facade of all this seems quite clear to me. Whatever I may convince my mind of, there is no escaping from the universe with the secrets I hope to dream away.