There is a place where people
Go. Enticed by its calling.
Jeering
Luring, coercing you to tip over.
Knowing if you resist you are
Killing yourself.

A risk between rapturous reception
And ruthless regret.
The lip of insanity, the troubled
Resting place for those who want to
Forget and be forgotten.

Those who wait on the edge
Become ghosts.
Tourists.
Watching as the world forgets them. Waiting on
Others instead of themselves.

Those who stay in the middle
Forget to look at things from the outside.
Central
View without outer perspective.
Things get broken in there.

There is a place where the boundaries
End. Where you must get lost to be found.
Performing
A balancing act between two worlds.
But if you walk too close
Eventually you’ll just…
                                                                                                                                                 F  a l    l          

              o    f        f.

We can’t help the world.
I will never again say
That people can change.
It’s a fact of life,
And I know
We can’t survive,
When they say
People tell lies
That life is worth living,
The truth comes out
That we are destroyed.
There are people who claim
That we aren’t ruined.
We just want to say,
It’s not over yet.

*NOW READ FROM BOTTOM TO TOP

Cubism an ugly distortion, criticised in comparison to fine art. Look at those shameful, jagged and unpolished edges. But no, change your perspective. These deviations are the very building blocks that allow us to tower over those who once marginalised difference. Those who rejected the ‘other’, for fear of refracting their own reflections in the opposition. Inevitably they’re left face to face with the ‘ugly’ perceived in here.

He awoke.

His eyes opened slowly with a purposeful slowness; an action that for most people is the beginning of their life was, for him, a procrastination.

He arose.

The floor felt cold, unwelcoming as he stumbled reluctantly to the sink. The bristles rasped against his teeth, gums bleeding out of spite.

He entered.

Breakfast—a lonely egg, boring toast—entered his body; each bite was scooped with the utilitarian vigor of one who is no longer enchanted by food, yet the relationship must continue: a compulsory marriage without option for divorce. This discomfort washed down with lemon-water.

He contemplated.

Thoughts, those musings that are feared, condemned by most and yet became the greatest of comforts for him, reminded him that one day it all would end and he would be free.

He wasted.

He stretched out his hands, offering up his life force in the daily sacrifice to the eager god that, in return, lit up with the brightness of a thousand stars that blinded him from all that he wished not to see.

He showered.

Cold water ran down his soul, icing the most superficial inflammations while taunting the deepest wounds; no matter how long he remained behind the curtain, there would be no true respite.

He returned.

The blackness beckoned. He entered willingly, surrendering himself to the dark embrace of that demonic respite, his beloved above all others.

He died, once again.