I write myself to death, because the silence is deafening and when I open my lips, what pours out are screams of filth that rots away into shards of painful glass that cuts through my tongue. This is why I sit in a corner wearing the quiet of the night like a blanket that covers everything but a smile.
I hold my mind in one hand and my heart in the other, and then nudge them together hoping they will embrace in warm whispers. But the cold shivers turn into choking tears and painful dreams that turn into waking nightmares.
Do you ever try to create order out of chaos? Like a puzzle you’ve poured your heart into, and then walk away and look back to realize that all the pieces are in the wrong place?
Have you ever created something so beautiful, from the empty void of nothing that was handed down, only to find yourself becoming the nothing that you tried so hard to run away from? Have you ever tried to become the cure that heals the world, and then be reminded that it was all just blinding poison that shone upon a million faces?
I did. And then I stood tall, in the middle of those million faces, disgusted by what I had done. The pain I had caused. Each empty stare, piercing through me, like diamonds, hardened by forces that were beyond me.
This isn’t what I had in mind, but this was a world of my own making. I grew fat with strength so that I could be the bridge that connects faces across the ether, but every step in the right direction, every foot forward, pushed me back a thousand miles.
I chose to live in the center of an empty void filled with meaningless gestures of strength, from kings and queens who carry wisdom far greater than my own. But a void eats everything, even the empty words of silent promises.
Sometimes I want to sit with the lords and ladies of this world and touch their faces and feel their scars and see if the shapes and paths reflect my own. Sometimes I just want to watch the world burn away into nothing, so that my own emptiness will burn away with it.
Sometimes I want to carry the burdens of the weak, until they become heavy enough to break my legs, so that I can lie down and watch them become giants who forget my face. Sometimes I just want to eat, until I fill myself with everything, so that I may forget the nothing, that has found itself a home at the center of my being.
Sometimes I feel like I can fill a million books with a trillion words, but I don’t want to write anymore, because I don’t want to be told I’m weak and I don’t want to choke on the silent judgement of those with more words.
Don’t ask me if I’m ok because none of us truly are. We are all so flawed, so truly, so deeply and so completely flawed. Every one of us is carrying in our hearts a special kind of love, a special kind of joy, a special kind of pain and a special kind of sorrow. My flaw is that I speak to you and of you as if I know you.
At the end of all of this, when all the words and mud and filth has been washed away, and the beating of my own heart has become too soft to hear, I want you to know that everyone is more than just a face.
Don’t be the one who looks at the face of a person and then judge them and walk away to become a stranger who speaks of it as if you have worn the face and walked it’s path. Don’t be the person who just looks at those faces, chip off small pieces, and then stitch them into monsters.
Touch those faces, feel the thousand scratches, that have molded and carved those faces into the beautiful shapes they have become. Every mark on every face has depth and textures and patterns you can’t feel just by looking.
Every face has a story. Sit with it, take it into your hands and take the time to read where they have come from and where they are going, and then speak of them in gentle words.