Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I. I cannot seem to picture holes in my body like most
people do. That popular metaphor they use to represent
loss. I think of those cardboard boxes that come in different
shapes, displayed in bookstores. Those you don't especially
need but feel like walking away with like they've
always been yours. One resembles an emptied
pool, another like a cake eaten so carefully, the sponge
remains barely intact, imitating a box. And yet, for some
reason, you don't want to put anything in them. They look appealing
as they are, empty. When a friend loses something, maybe a
blown-off cap, I picture a green oblong box neatly caved
in his crown, through his skull. I can't visualize a hole, or
a collapsed floorboard, nor dug-out soil. Assorted colored
boxes in odd shapes, at different locations and time, fitting
flawlessly, like an expensive upgraded sink, through people's
body parts. Sometimes I picture them with a lid on but
they're still visible: an obvious bright patch of cardboard ingrained
in someone's palm, or at one side of another's abdomen.

II. Holes, usually from gunshot, are intentionally plumbed
by nature and open till the other end. True loss, to become
irretrievable, has to have an element of reach and is then
restricted by space—tracing inevitability. You lose a phone
and you search through the rectangle case by your thigh,
and seize nothing, there's only cardboard and skin.

III. You lose someone. But an entire
box the shape of your body can't possibly replace you
or your whole skeletal system would pop out. So you imagine
that loss, an open cocoon, as a single *****—a heart, or
at least half of it. You can't tell whether that side is capable
of beating, but when you knock on it, it sounds the same. You feel that compartment in your chest and it's all solid and compact,
maybe even scratchy. You reach and your hand doesn't go
through. Of course, it never arrived like a bullet. You deliberately
chose to put something in that box. And as much as you
rather wanted to see that bright ear-shaped box empty, leaving
it's contents to imagination, you compromised, thinking
half a heart wouldn't take too much space. And losing
that person, you think back on the day you first got the
box. It was never meant to be filled, you imagine. It looked
better on a shelf behind glass among other colored boxes:
firm as new and all equally fragile, maybe even
bearing a scent or taste. I believe this is one way to cope with loss,
by disassociating it—turning it into a pretty spectacle you'd want to
buy but don't, just another section one passes in a mall.
the moon looks like the cheshire cat's grin
and we wonder what it is like
to be someone else.

Head full of fantasies
of places we'll never see
and dreams of universes
we don't belong to.

The moon grins down,
like it knows something I don't
and I gaze back accusingly.
Have you ever been in a moment?

When you wake up in the morning
You see it all blank
You feel like you’re nothing
Everything has no meaning
Asking yourself ‘why am I here’?
Why am I living but feeling dead
Why am I still here?
Asking what’s the purpose?
The reason for all of this
Then you find no answer
And you want to end it in a click
But you can’t
Because at the same moment
You still want to live
Be one of the braves
Whose still fighting
And you still have hope
That one day in a million days
You’ll find the answer
The reason why you’re in this moment

*Beholding the past
Dying today
And living for tomorrow.
I deleted it before because I think it’s too cliché and of course I’m not the only one who feels depressed at some moment (life is cliché). And I’m too paranoid and scared that someone I know might read it and judge me, that I’m about to take my life or something like I’m crazy.. Well maybe I am depressed that day and it keeps coming over and over and I’m tired.. it makes me crazy… but I still have hope that days would be different and I could be better.

So now here it is -I just need to let it out.
All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.
Today a man told a **** joke.
Everyone laughed.
I stood there and thought about it for a moment
And then I asked,
"What is funny about that?"
The laughter stopped
and they stood there in silence.
The momentary silence of shattered illusions,
There was no answer
Because it wasn't funny
So why laugh?
Next page