I love everything that is detrimental to me, isn't that why — I love you, so much, isn't that why, I am petrified of being alone; from papers and scissors, to stones, maybe, I could take my time out to write you a line or two; like Shakespeare, like marbles, like the gilded monuments that fall so perfectly and precisely into turmoil, and dilapidation. a trail of fire, slowly drips down from one of the cuts, surgically made and inducted into my left wrist; your mouth, it's wide open, a masochistic cry originated from the depths of your abdomen — it calls for you, and, you cannot deny, you'll live and die abiding by your shrewdness; and, me : I'll find an aperture to squeeze myself through, and leave you somewhere inbetween. these days, I slot my meals between brown liquor and sleeping pills; you should try them too — they help me, to get by, to get back into your arms, maybe, they'll help you as well, to go down. this isn't much, or more, than a man's honest work, the opposite of a magnum opus; somewhere close to devil's work, I end up losing my way to everything that once mattered, I'm no Hemingway, neither is this world worth fighting for. it would probably be nice, to make it out of here, in my flying DeLorean — or, getting electrocuted by the sea, and never turning my head around, to see the soil that I just set myself free from. cigarettes and sad films, sad films and overanalytical crises are all, and everything that my head is open to. I should search for some help, because this was supposed to be something else, something close to a writing of love, for love; the devil shall forever shut me out of speaking my true mind — and, I will forever close the door on you.
this is my thirteenth letter, to your address; you did reply to the first three — and, I still remember, how the season was edging into another autumn, leaves were starting to fall, but, so were you, for another man. you were always the better writer amongst the two of us; the way you started hiding amidst the gaps left between two consecutive stanzas, whereas, writing for me, was a method to rinse away the scum, the dirt and the scent, that you used to bring home, a scent, that didn't belong to your collarbone. and, on a second thought, my skin has aged well and enough, to not think about it, ever again; but, again, here's the thirteenth letter.
most of the creatures come out at night, queers, crackers, addicts, rapists, queens, fairies — and me, dwelling deep inside a vicariously vivid mass murder scene, whilst clutching my Ruger 9mm, beneath the carseat. they ask us to think twice before committing to something, but, did you ? did you think twice before sleeping with someone else ? karma has kissed me once on my forehead, now, it's going to kiss me for the second time because, I didn't think twice before shooting these pedestrians. three days past summer solstice, my heart is freezing over a hell, that is so cold, colder than the empty bedside, colder than your vows; sanity is subjective and some of my friends, they firmly believe in the idea that I'm losing it.
say cheese and there you have a joyous picture of her, write murder and there you have a minced body with its intestines barely hanging inside — a new frame was imminent, for me to make it out, and, she had to be cropped out of the picture. you used to ruminate on the thought, that it was always me, making you want to kill yourself; but, what's your wish because, it could be granted, would you like to stay here with me, or, would you rather visit your newfound love by the rivers of the heavens above ? steadily running out of time, of patience, and, of life, take my magic wand and wash me clean of the implications. it is never enough to make it stop; (leaves grow and flowers bloom back up again during the summertime, unless, they're all plucked, or, torn, or, dead).
Lately, I have been too apologetic to my mother. Every evening, I barge in through the main door, with my inability to stand straight; I tell her that I am sorry but that darkness suffocates me, more than the smoke; I have been adding to the same darkness.
With every sip of Hennessy burning my throat, I essentially discard myself away from a radiating path because, Mumma, I'm too paranoid of the light it promises to offer me. I tell you it was dark inside, It's darker outside. I wish to tell her more but her eyes and heart are too welled up to hear me anymore.
She thinks, only if I try harder, I can trail away from the dark snow. How do I tell her that I'm trying but it is succumbing me harder inside it, distorting my thoughts, dilating my pupil, and creating an unhealthy head space; similar to the time distortion and dilation, at the edge of a black hole.
I hear a chorus of delirium dawdling inside my dwindling mind, everytime someone smiles at me. Moreover, I see them mocking me, like I have ridiculed these words with wrong punctuations.
But it hardly matters when I know, I am but, a well intentioned nothing, who once raced with light and now, will be suffering in darkness all my life, regretting and apologizing until I sleep in the very grave, I dug for myself.
time flies past me, maybe, just maybe — it's minutely slower for you, because you look at your reflection, in the hope of turning into the pitch-black and cold asphalt; whilst, I'm left at the bay wondering what's underneath. the binaries still scare me, for the certainty that it provides, whereas, I'm starting to get used to hanging inbetween, in the hope that you would knock on the door, that I've slightly opened just so, I could hear your footsteps at the front porch. crack my ribcage open, and repair the pacemaker with a pair of pliers and some screws, but, please make sure to find the correct fit for the bolts, otherwise, I'll be fed to the stale taste of recycled air.
you retracted your attention like the landing gears of an airplane; now, I will never be able to look at flights the same way, ever again and, I'll banish myself from the hope of ever getting out of this place. if this is called living — then, I've been a sinner for the entirety of my life, because, living comes partially to me, and, killing time turns me into the monster completely; the monster that your mother warned you about, the monster that stays wide awake underneath your bed, as you sleep quietly.
and, just a verse ago, I could've sworn on the victim card — yet, sometimes nothing is ever what it seems like; you, for example, seemed like an angel, but, aren't you the succubus to each one of my turbulent nights ? horses gallop over the burial grounds, me and you, we both rest the case; take my innocence into consideration and let me off easy, a busy man shouldn't be held up for so many days on end, time is running out, kindly, let me off and out —
(I've to go, time's running out but, it's never too late for killing time;
there was an eerie cold and silence; not one before the storm, but the calm of the havoc; one where it's known that nothing can be done, and sitting in cross legged submission is not a choice.
"they are soldiers. they ought to be prepared to die. they're born for this, trained for this, institutionalised for slaughter one day,"
"then why hide it from them?"
"they're orders, from the core,"
"what is the plan, sire, what is it?"
"you don't have to be concerned about that,"
"LIKE HELL I DO—"
melroc burst out in fleeting rage, and gruntled.
"I can't dispatch my comrades to a one way death paradise, and sip on tea cradling on my office chair; if they go on this mission, if they have to die, they've the right to know why—"
anorach exhaled a deep, regretful sigh.
"do you know why they were chosen?"
"yes, I certainly do, it's because they're the finest of the finest; the a-rankers—"
"no, that's the reason everyone is told; the rankings were manipulated; the real reason why they were chosen is because they've no legacy— no family, no children, no loved ones; if they die, no one will remember them, no one will mourn them,"
"that's not right—"
"they're merely tools,"
"and they'll be slain for the corruption, greed and vice of the ones above us, with no glory adorning their graves; their names will be lost,"
"on my insistence, don't tell zeris and his squad anything we talked about here, because if any of them withdraws, someone else would be forced to go; someone who might have a family,"
"this was never a mission of honour, it was always a conspiracy,"
when melroc exited the room drooped and in disdain, he saw zeris standing against the wall.
"after I'm gone, captain, if shyla comes to you, tell her I loved her more than anything—"
"severe dry spells have been observed across the globe; renowned climatologists have claimed this to be the advent of a catastrophe, but the government representatives still haven't broken silence—" a hasty news anchor, on the radio buzzing in background.
"ain't you the luckiest motherfucker on the planet?"
"how long are you going to be salty about it?"
"TILL THE FUCKING DAY I DIE—"
"I leave in seven days, and you'll probably not see me for a long time, is there nothing warm you've to say,"
"jesus, is this what it feels like when a dream comes true? heaven's heard me then,"
"nevermind. I came to tell ya that they are holding this ball, tomorrow night, to honour the crew assigned for the mission—"
"yeah, duh, what do you want me to say? enjoy? hope you fucking do,"
"I wanted to invite you, but it's oka—"
"I said, I'LL GO WITH YOU! problems?"
"no. none. no problems at all, ma'am. see you tomorrow."
shyla smiled mischievously and an annoyed zeris left, but the radio continued:
"forest fires have increased rapidly, and the antarctic ice is melting at an unbelievable pace; the allied government sends word that a specially assembled team will take up the task, but will this be enough—" a hasty news anchor, on the radio buzzing in background.