The Mind Is Limitless

“Goodbye,” she said quite simply, her hands waving me away, fingers cracked and bleeding like her lips. “I’m going away,” eyelids fluttering in some dreamlike state where time passed by at a different speed, but her eyes didn’t look haunted any more and where ever she was, she seemed at peace. “Don’t come looking for me,” she whispered, “you don’t find me anyway. I’m going to sleep and won’t be back for a while. Perhaps by then you’ll be gone too. I’ll miss you, but I can’t stay.” Her fingers traced over my mouth as if to stop the protests she knew were waiting to come, pressing traces of blood onto my lips　. Then she left me, my words for her left withering in my mouth where they would do no good any more. But that’s when I started writing.

I thought the blanket smelled of cat urine when I woke up in the morning and my first thought was, “ack, that 　cat again!”

Then I remembered he’d died six months ago and between then and now that blanket had been washed at least two dozen times and there was no cat and no urine and just my overly active imagination. And suddenly I wouldn’t mind having cat urine on the blanket if it meant having him back.

I really miss him.

You are despicable and I do not love you.

You blink and read that again. You wonder if you read it wrong, or are misinterpreting something. Perhaps you knot your eyebrows together. Frown, confused. Then you read it yet again. Carefully. But you read right the first time; you are despicable and I do not love you.

Let me explain the latter part of that first. If you came seeking dramatic declarations of undying love, you will be disappointed. If you came looking for promises of forever, you will be disappointed. If you came searching for my pledge that my heart is yours forever for all time you will, again, be disappointed. There will be none. Shakespeare will be disappointed and so will Hollywood but I don’t care, they are wrong, and they insist on calling all that love so fine then, I do not love you and I will not write foolish love letters to you either. Love letters are silly and pointless and end up in the trash anyway.

I have no faith in them and I do not want to write them when mine are etched into my skin. Colouring my eyes, my hair, my lips. Leaving and entering in little clouds as I breathe. I will not let them out onto something as flimsy as paper and lead to end up tossed away. They are too precious for that- I will press them into you instead. Kiss you, hard, and let them sink into you. Let you drink them in.

I don’t think any words would do them justice, anyway.

But I forget. I do not love you, remember? So there are no love letters. Nor will I stay up at night and think of you. Well, I fall asleep replaying past conversations and thinking of talking to you again the next day with a little smile on my lips hiding thoughts no one’s guessed at yet, but that’s irrelevant. The point is, I will not stay up thinking of you. Do not. Will not.

But I digress. And I ought to tell you why I find you so terrible, or it wouldn’t be fair.

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It died, a few days old, blossomed and thrived and then shrivelled up into itself. But they bloom, and then some, continual symbolism of neverending growth, perfect parallel of a concept of a reality that should be my mind. 　

They’re playing games with me again, and I am not amused.

Put down your head. Just for a minute, what harm can it do? Let those fragile butterfly wing lashes flutter shut for a few moments of some semblance of peace, the world shut out beyond those tissues of skin that seem to be all you need to keep it all away, shut it out. Sink down, pen slipping from those fingers, to roll away into some crevice, foot leaning against the wall, head curled into the nook of an arm.  No protests now, just uncurl your hands and let out all that tension, that’s right, relax out your arms and your back, ignore the pain there and let it drain away…

No, no, you worry far too much, it will all be fine. You can deal with it all later, it’s nothing that can’t wait. Just forget the world, shh let your bobbing head rest, you can let yourself go now…

The trees, you said, remember the trees, and when all is lost, look to them to remind you. And I do. Even more than animals, it’s always been the trees for me, hasn’t it, they are companions in silence with gently waving leaves that become comforting.

Shh. Pay attention, they might be trying to tell you something. Pouring into you waves, of patience in the wake of time as spindles spin and orbs crawl across the sky, of strength, tired arms laden with wood holding up unwavering, constant, with the suppleness to bend with the winds, and stubbornness, as roots sink in deep and refuse to let go, slender fingers finding their way deep into the soil and holding on.

When I realized this- when I told you this- you smiled. Yes, you said, because you are like them, and they are like you, you speak in calmness and find the same comfort in silence, of choosing to speak with something akin telepathy, immersing your surroundings with your feelings rather than saying them.

I didn’t forget, and I wonder how true this is. But of course, you smile again, because we both know I know this to be of complete truth, and after our quiet exchange I muse how perhaps it isn’t such an absurd idea that I will find myself living away my life hidden among the trees, finally left alone and yet, always surrounded. In peace.

An Absence of Emptiness

They say a person’s room is a reflection of their mind, and this one seems to be a somewhat accurate parallel- utter chaos. And constantly changing. But there is a careful order to the chaos. There is- albeit unconscious- a deliberateness to it, layers on layers to keep strangers at bay.

In the three years of taking up residence in this room I’ve seen it be transformed at least three times, a fluid space, contained and small and yet somehow limitless. There is never any space, there is always just a bit more.

For a room that small in size, it holds a considerable amount of occupants- four, sometimes five, and the energy flows in and out as easily as the air through the open windows, contributing to the chaos. The door shut for privacy, the window open for freedom. The door shut to block out the general cacophony of a large household, the window open to let in the singing of the birds. And the wind’s whistling, like a maiden singing in the meadow, passing between flowers, like a sly fox slipping between leaves.

At least, when I’m there- I don’t know what becomes of this room when I’m gone and the others remain. Ah. The others. This room is privacy and the complete absence of it. Paradox.

Between the beds, in front of the window, is a little gap- a sort of no man’s land, enough space for a little table. But even that table is surprisingly, seemingly, limitless in the spaces and nooks it offers. It is virtually a basket open sideways and on wheels, a foot in height and about as deep, a foot and a quarter in length. This little space holds books and papers and secrets. They’re made of stories and memories protected by some invisible ring that no one dares breach, a fine chain of links ridiculously fragile and yet surprisingly strong, that holds no signs and yet screams “Do Not Enter” all on its own. On top, the very-little-but-big-enough table holds a laptop. For all the chaos, if observed carefully enough, all the things show signs of tender care. The laptop is no exception, kept carefully free of dust, it symbolizes both an open door and a firmly sealed one, and for all that it looks ordinary, it too holds secrets. Stories, it knows a lot of stories, and the hard black refuses to give them up.

Next to the table is a jar of pistachio nuts. It holds no significance, it has too much. It has witnessed too many episodes of frazzled nut-cracking to relieve stress and far too much fun to play with and consume.

There are other details but they are not my stories to tell, not my secrets to divulge. As it is, I’ve said too much.

How amusing that for something so monstrously frightening as the sound of thunder and forks of lightning flashing quick, I feel only comfort, and for all of people’s cringing and wincing, the uneasy shifting in their sleep as the dark clouds overhead startle with unnerving sounds, I hear only music. For all that people find themselves running for cover all I want to do is run out and meet the rain, let the droplets kiss the delicate skin that form the eyelids, meet the night-city engulfed in hazy orange from the streetlights.

There will be a moment when the rain stops and the world will look made anew, washed clean of the everyday dust balls that so flutter into crevices, grass springing up fresh as their thirst is finally quenched, a fully bloomed flower delicate and beautiful like a baby who’d just taken a bath. There will be that moment after the rain stops where if you look the right way you’ll see the rainbow forming among the water drops dripping down off where they’d caught and draining away, when the world is engulfed in that just-rained scent. It will come. But for now, it is raining, and it reminds me of home.

Broken walls with cracks leading up to the ceiling as moss hangs by upside down and pours nostalgia.

What is this beauty?
My mind freezes, unable to think.
Your lovely words have caused
My gates to crumble, as I sink.

Ruin, not beauty, these bloody wounds fade to scars, then nothing, a memory of a memory where scabs form and collapse.

—-

An accidental collab of a sort of cross between poetry and prose with hopehandwritten. The one in italics is her.