strands of my being, each as individuals

"strands of my being, each as their own individuals"

( these are stories to the brokenly parted anatomy of existence, 

which then grew to their own scars and dreams )

(I) I antagonize people, for that is the easiest way to read the air wafting around nuances, gestures, and response. In that way, the less of burden I have to get hit with, the less of darkness I have to plunge myself into, for I know, if I had accepted what I see as what I know and see, I do know, it will all come back to me, turning sharp to pierce me straight from the first to the last of layers, from air to another air, as ligtning strike the solemn air with the loudest of chaos, then leaving the most silent of response. It left. It left the air dead.

(II) I feel like, places are just moments away, I've stored lots of places in memories of senses, sighst, sounds, textures, shapes and colors, all the gradation collide into an integrity of complexity, then the most of all, of smell. A slight of smell could remind me of a faraway land, a place so far, seperated in ten years of distance from time dimensional properties. It creates back all the little details I observed and absorbed, reboots an orchestra of what I make sense of the place as what it was. 

(III) All have left each and every of their own realm, left me aside, bare feeted in an underwater ice cave, in the loudness of its silence, the louder it howls around my neck the scarier it gets for my vulnurability to cope. It is easier to flaunt a disbelief, "how could they, for I've given them home, places for each own sparks, how could they empty this all, take everything away, but me". In that way, I've chosen a rather shorter route for senses to come up, to then thaw the ice which made me a cold, dark being, an unmovable heart. In that way, I'm still in the capacity to move, for if it were the other way, me treasuring all the bleeding and broken arrows to then stab myself with, in the importance to keep my "realism" of the world, to keep the world in a genuine state of existence, to keep hope, it'd be thousands and thousands and more times harder, for me to live this existentialism I bear, even if then in that state, hope does still exist, I then would stay unthawed for the rest of that belief, I'd still stand alive, my eyes would still spark the works of light, but then in spite of all of that, I am dead, dead as the deepest of sea, though still alive in small, different ways.

(IV) Oh, love my dear, how am I supposed to wake and stand with the knowledge of knowing you aren't here. My love, I'd wake up in the middle of the night's darkness and our room's dimness, I remember I had a bad dream and I then can't turn back to close my eyes, for it is frightening to go through it all again and to fall back again to a place darker than the night. But, I swear, in those nights, I know I am not stranded alone, I know I could feel the range of my comfort and security expanding over the bed, through all the corners of the room, even though unseen, then through the house, the neighborhood, and then through all even the darkest of alleys and all of reality. I swear to you my love,  I could feel the ups and downs of the bed, I could feel the fiber of the bed cover moving along with it, singing a melody so gentle and so familiar, it saves me from the night rush, and all that I couldn't believe, I could feel your hands holding mine, breathing, It feels longing, to one another, mine to yours, yours to mine, and ours to each other. I know it was your hand, love, for it is the same pair of gentleness that touched my face and my heart when my reality seemed shaking, the same that gave extra space for me to live in to recover in the most dreadful of days, the same that gave me love. Oh, but how do I cope with waking up, knowing you were here, but when I touched the covers, it's just fiber and dust.

When I open the window, the sun still shine the morning away from the leftovers of the night, but I know that sight of light is just a bare illusion, nothing to it at all, for mine was gone when you disappeared. Why did you have to go to a place where I couldn't follow, love? I don't know where you are now, but please come back home soon. I've missed you more than the sky misses the earth. Where are you my love...

(V) Kingdom is lost, from here you cannot cross, as ticks and tocks of clocks are still on the walk, run, my dearest. For the kingdom is lost, and it shall fall.