Thoughts. Like raindrops.

A tale of a man in a cave.


Floating.
Floating in a pool of thoughts, trickling down into my own head and sifting through my brain like thin pasta. Angel hairs slipping their way out of my body and into the ground where they stay and bubble beneath the surface, never sprouting action or movement.
Frustration.
Never knowing what to say. Wondering is silence is the best option. Trying to balance on the soft water while floating down the river in the cave that I can't seem to find my way out of.
Am I still floating? Every time I try to float towards someone else in the cave I fall short, I kick at the wrong time, at the wrong speed.
I hit someone else on the way to the same target and, in order to maintain balance, I stop and float once more.
Spinning in the water.
This cave is quiet.
This cave gathers negative energy and pours it through us.
Maintain your balance or you'll drown. Like a child holding a bug underwater, letting it surface for a split second before plunging it back into the puddle in which is shall die.
I train myself to be still. To smile and hide the truth.
The shop closes down, not selling any more today. The silence lets me be.
The moon rises and the water glows with silent slices of light, slowly swishing through the water and touching my body but these lights lie, The lights bring hope, they trick and deceive. These lights, with their infinite mystery and grace lead you to a part of the cave where you feel safe and then abandon you for another cave dweller, one you can't seem to see.
It's not the caves fault.
The lights didn't know they were hurting you.
The lights come regularly, faint rays of kindness and misread intention.
Clicks and pops of water on water, cleaning my body after I roll into mud. The mud is on the underside, always will be. Every roll washes it away, but it always comes back. Best I can do is hide it. No one sees the mud.
"Is this all there is?" I think to myself "Will I just float in this cave letting the lights trick me?"

Yes.
Yes I will.
I miss the dark cave. At least she told the truth.

Be quiet.

I wish that it didn't have to be like this.
Quiet mind, stop talking, paging my brain like they're two different things.
I feel fragmented and cold, my thoughts drift to opposite extremes and my heart whines about things I can't control.
Why can't we have a do over?
New game plus please let me start again with knowledge intact.
Lessons learned far too late, eyes opened years after their usefulness is passed.
Everything is not going to be ok and everyone pretends like it can be.

Let me be ignorant to it, let me think it'll all be fine.
Shut up.
Stop talking.
Be quiet.

The little things.

Try to hold onto the little things, all the people say.
Hold onto them and all of the sleights and downsides will melt into nothing.
So we hold on and wait, cling to the small morsels of happiness we manage to accrue. The slings chip away at our small bastion dangling on a string and occasionally snip the string itself, sending us plummeting into the miasma of filth below.
Minds click and pop with questions always unanswered, a query often asked but never explained.
How could this be? How could this be all that it is? My little castle on a string grows with pride and the small joys, turrets reaching towards the eternally blue sky, so beautiful yet so far out of our grasp.
The castle gets too big and I manage to break the string myself, falling from the weight of too much hope.

Once a man build a castle in a swamp, it fell down so he build it again only to have it fall a second time. In defiance he built a third which sank so he build a fourth and that one stayed up.
Lucky man.
Probably very poor now though.

Time.

Time is ticking.
As quickly as we find some time to ourselves, to do as we please, it ends.
I wish it could be night until the end times. Night is quiet and safe.
I'm not tired, I don't want to go to bed yet.

Let me free.

Hearts and minds, they burn to win
Electricity crackles on the tips of his ears and down to my toes
Blood pumps with passion and fury, fuelling the rockets of flame which propell it toward its desires
No logic guides its step, its goal is all that matters, blinding white pure happiness it what it seeks and the consequences are irrelivant.
The mind approaches with caution, but blasts back with power as well, the air is full of tension which the brain cuts through with a jolt of lightning
Synapses click and pop, giving power to the ever growing storm of indignation, spurring the grey twist of flesh to greater levels of propulsion

A man stands in the middle, blue chain wrapped around one hand, fiery sinew around the other
He was fine, he held the two forces in check, made them work together when necessary
But he's tired
They pull with an ever growing intensity and he doesn't know how long he can hold on for
'Stop fighting' he thinks
The mind scoffs and the heart doesn't listen, they continue to clash like two brothers intent on proving one is better
They will tear him in two, he knows this, but he can't decide

Which one should he kill?

Dark.

It's dark.
Paris sits, slumped over in the black.
The shower is running, he doesn't remember turning it on but it's warm on his neck.
He can't see. At least not well. There's a light from next door shining toward the window, dimly lighting the room.
Paris' hands are turned up in front of him, his arms heavy and numb, swimming in the small pool of water slowly growing between his legs.
He can hear music. He turned it on, he remembers.
The tune isn't haunting or melancholy, it's one of his favourite jazz groups playing. He would usually sing along but his lips are weighted and his throat is closed, his chin clamped to his chest causing him to take shallow but long breaths.
'Where am I?' he wonders to himself. He tries to open his eyes but he can't bring himself to. His mind pulls him back and won't let him use his body.
'We are at rest,' his mind protests 'Let us be.'
So he does. He breathes deeply and his chin cracks with the rising chest, water blocks up his nose so he opens his mouth wide, his mind will let him have that much at least. Sipping small drops of water is almost unavoidable.
Paris is tired and his mind agrees.
'I can't.' he repeats this again and again.
'I know we can't. Just sit. This is fine.'
'But...' he stops trying. The water drops hard on the back of his skull so he lurches forward and lets it pummel his back for a while. It feels good on his neglected body.
It feels good to let go and be. He is fine. He is there.
And he can't think.
He can't go.
He isn't there.
'No,' he tells himself 'No we're not.'

Nindo

And he'll stay quiet.
He'll listen and he'll nod.
He'll do what you ask,
Even if it's wrong.

He'll meet your expectations,
If he falls short then he'll stop,
Approach it from a new way,
Until your mind has calmed.

He doesn't ask for much,
When he wants something he deals.
He knows that if he wants it,
It clashes with your style.

It not because he's tired,
Or cause he doesn't care.
It's never done on purpose,
Malicious isn't his style.

He hates the passive comments,
But never says a word.
He hates it when you judge him,
But never says a thing.

He doesn't kick,
Or scream,
Or fight.
He nods and stays out of sight.
Cause the further he stays from outside the gaze the less his brain will hurt.

He doesn't want to hurt you,
Cause your way is yours to have.
He just wants quiet, and peace.
Something he's rarely had.

He doesn't do it to hurt you,
He wants you to have your best.
So he'll bottle all his frustration,
And burn within himself.