a blazing blade can be easily confused as a beam of light. you hear no sound, you feel no weight, you see light. it can be anything. you don't doubt your senses. it's light.
when the thought ceases to be a bother, at the turn of a second, that gut-wrenching sound of pure agony pierces through your ear. a bellowy scream can be perceived as a weeping voice. you see no danger, you feel no blood. it's impossible to doubt your senses when you have none.
a brief glimpse of grace, a momentary lapse of livelihood, brings you back to what you previously described as "existing".
you see a person.
a person who, in the eyes of an existential impossibility, can be perceived as a blade. a person, in the eyes of madness, can be perceived as a lighter. you are flammable.
"that is your job".
your entire reality depends on the notion that you will be turned into ashes by this ungodly fiery, who in the eyes of a walking corpse, like you, is in their right to do so.
a walking corpse can be seen as a showcase of earthly beauty in the eyes of another, but you were quick to assume she was.
you are burning relentlessly. bleeding endlessly, with no blood in sight.
in what was once your veins, there is an overwhelming force powered by what's now an apparent wrong.
you sit.
burn.
yell.
scream your lungs out.
your hellish reality is fleeting.
yet, you can only feel the growing heating.
it's hopeless.
your cry for help, you are no longer a part of this thing you were.
honesty was never present.
...
confusion.
death hangs over this earthly plane, however, the falsely abstract seems unaffected.
pain is fleeting.
hatred is meaningless.
vengeance will bring no justice.
yet...
she has to fall. she must. it's reason.
it's your current self's concept of reason.
that's what you are.
burning.
she will be burning too.
i have no desire to be pitied, but understood. those two things are constantly mixed up. i'm only looking for a home- or rather, its meaning. only then i will be complete. i believe my home is also looking for their home.
this endless seeking has been my sole fuel for as long as i've been breathing. my child self could only see love in music. the art he'd consumed never told him that this is what i'm here for, but it showed him that this is what i always wanted. if there is life before life and our pre-life selves have a plan for us, then that was mine. no, i digress, that is me.
at some point the optimistic pursuit transmuted into a futile decision to wait for something that will never come. someone or some ineffable force of nature does not allow me to find home, and it constantly shows me that home is probably nowhere. at the same time, it shows me that home is somewhere-- i'm just not allowed to find it.
maybe because i've let myself be consumed by that, and in the way i got lost. we're supposed to be people, to have personalities and realistic aspirations and "home" is just a consequence of all that. for most people it's just a footnote, and not the sole reason they're alive. maybe that's why i'm not allowed, because i lost myself. if the very thing that defines me is the lack of itself, i am either a walking paradox or i don't exist. i can only find home if my home wants me, but who would ever want an empty home made of cheap styrofoam? i never worked by the rules and this is the price i pay: looking for something that will never be here.
but don't get me wrong, i'm not looking for comfort. i don't want to be pitied nor i seek pleasure, physical relief or a life of ease.
i'm just looking for my home, because i believe that is the only place i belong.
sometimes i have a feeling that my home is looking for a home in me too.