Self-portrait

If only I wasn't such a coward, I think the thrill would be worth the ride. But then perfectionism spoils everything. Smoky rooms clear my head, highlights the little spots we try to hide. I should cock it, ah but then it is the painting which must be destroyed and not the flesh.

This funk serves my purpose, for tonight the darkness belongs to my mistakes. Let us laugh on it. Pretend that we are all better creatures than what we really are. All the world is a stage, then grab a line. I'd get some sense but its not in fashion.

Silence is mistaken for wisdom when the truth of it is just a shield. I am sick of being the mirror. It is like quicksand, the more I struggle, the faster I sink. I'd hold my breath but I am not even breathing. But I am not alone. Lulled by time and caressed by dreams. There is an awakening to this story. But first something must wither and die.

My head hurts, throbbing in rhythm with my pulse. It is loud, thudding but most of all mocking in its beat. Even my faculties have deserted me. After all I have abandoned everything. The Cassandras tells me I am falling. Doomsayers indeed. Yet they are blind. They cannot tell the difference. It is flying that's what it is, even soaring.

Never lose it. It is the tone which remains.