Have you ever felt that presence? You know, the one that ticks within your mind and keeps you just lucid enough to deprive you of sanity? Tick tick tick. I'll tear out the walls for the source of irritation. It's not right, rotate my bed and arrange the books in the corner. That's not right either. Re-order the things how they were. Maybe if I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling long enough it will all go away and everything will just be over. Maybe I won't wonder anymore and all that driving senselessness will disperse. It won't. It's become normality, these raging mental wars and doubts and unbalanced, pulsing heart beats. I wonder, sometimes, amidst all the questions and wondering, if there's more than endless struggle and a pointless, dreamer's existence? What if that undefined deep, gripping, nothingness that keeps me grasping for something and hoping that someday, somehow I'll make it is really just a backlash of insecurity and tragic, emotional misunderstanding? It's senselessness, it all. It's been hours or weeks or minutes or days - it doesn't matter - I've been sitting here, staring at the white, painted ceiling for what feels like a dozen lifetimes. It's a prison cell and I'm allowed to walk free; and that's what's heinous about the whole thing; I walk free. I sing and talk and move about but face the consciousness of being caged and held and tortured by whatever unseen thing will haunt me. I run and tour; but it's always present. It stops sometimes, the ever-revolving constant. It rests, building steam and plowing full speed ahead - until she walks in the room. She calms me and the demons hide awhile. It isn't love; just a presence that sees the soul. I'm not an artist or a writer or poet or liar or singer or anything much more than nothing to her - I'm just this kid from Florida with wide eyed dreams and irrational aspirations. I'm more than fictitious hope and faux-confidence that I'll reach the lights and the long nights and the ten thousand voices screaming beneath the monstrous, engulfing stages. It's not a blurry, twisted, fight to trudge on and keep from falling but a literal existence to her. Existence, you hear? I exist beyond paper and struggle and amplified reality broken down to glorified pieces of something in poetry. Maybe I don't. Either way it's calming and I'm not calm now. Maybe I'm tired. I haven't slept in three days and everything seems distant. What's it really matter anyway? Kings and paupers and poets - we're all just hoping for purity and our portion of grace eternal come judgement day. Sure the living matters, but what of the greatness? I'll die alone and reach the same immortal end as if I passed in the loving arms of thousands. I don't want to be great; I just want to be heard. If greatness accompanies, so be it. If not, no pride will be hurt. I'm too shameful for pride regardless. What do dirty hands and tattered souls know of arrogance. Perhaps too much too often.
I keep staring at the door with this sort of desperate hope that it'll open and you'll walk in and save me. Maybe we'll just sit in the corner and sing for awhile. You always sing so grippingly. You're timid and shy and the way you blush and tremble when you perform is more endearing than embarrassing. I love that you almost need me and use my faith to get through the frightening lines. No need for nerves, my dear - I'll guard your heart and keep all the critics at bay. You sound amazing and look even better than I claim. So lock stares with mine and we'll play through the night 'till your stormy eyes close for their resting. Dream sweet, my dear. Dream sweet...
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