Each and every of us is a story
Story in my life
We never met physically
But we're family

We all weave our separate stories
But from a distance they are one
We all come from different places in this world
But in this screen we are one

Thank you for being my friend
Thank you for being my family
Thank you for being my happy memories
Thank you for being my life.

I've been asked so many questions by these dreams.
My reality, my ideas are being questioned.
What is the world?
It's all that's around me.
What is the world?
It's everyone and everything.
What is the world?
It's what I see and feel?
Is that what your world is?
I... think so.

Who are you?
I'm Johnny.
Who are you?
I'm an artist.
Who are you?
I'm the pilot, The Third Child, the poet, the unwanted man.
Who are you?
That is me! What do you want from me?
Who are you?
I'm... I hate myself.
Is that who you are?
I... don't know.

Why do you write?
Because it helps me relieve myself of my feelings.
Why do you write?
Because I need to share my artistry.
Why do you write?
Because I want people to notice me.
Why do you write?
Because I want to be loved!
Why do you write?
I just want love.

Why?
Because I'm alone.
Why?
I hurt myself.
Why?
I hate myself.
Why?
I DON'T KNOW!
Why?
I... I...

What is this world to you?
It's pain, it's emptiness.
You probably just made yourself think that.
Everybody hates me.
You probably just made yourself think that.
I hate me.
You probably just made yourself think that.
Everything is terrible, I hate it all.
You probably just made yourself think that.
You... You're lying to me!
You probably just made yourself think that.
I don't know what's real anymore.

That's no issue. Take some time.
Your friends will help you understand reality sooner or later.

Chopin's Nocturne opus 9, number 2

A sonorous performance,
The mellow yet melancholic undertones of the masterpiece reverbates through the meadow
From the reflective rubato streaking past the flowerbed,
To the passionate conclusion in a whim, echoing through the garden,
The garden in which a willow rests
Its twigs holding a chalice in its embroidering,
Twines glowing in the shimmering of the silver moon,
Its dark-red fluids seeping from the cracks

It gazes through the dark crevasses for an eternity,
A panorama of planets and stars dwindling to dust as it stirs its nebulas,
Clouding its view as in parallel,
Universes as large as needle tips deteriorate to nothing

There's just naught, nothing, nothingness,
The black mass piercing,
Puncturing the veins of the solemn soul wandering through the canyon
Rubato, stringendo, it walks its own pace and in its solitude
The moonlight its guide, the music its guardian
The darkness its friend

The walls enclosed - an impasse clad in an aural hue descending from the stars
An eternal mirror flowing accross the pond
It took a gander in the deep lagoon and saw the galaxy unfold

Sparkling candenzas fluttering through the sky like fireflies
Ever abiding, expanding galaxies within the grasp of its cortex
The moon flows, the stream flows
The sound of drizzling water emanating from the distance
Timeless endeavour snaps back to reality

I found myself sitting in a dim-lit room, glass in hand
The mellow taste of the blood-red wine
A bouquet of fine grapes with cherry undertones
In the corner rests the mirror I gaze in occasionally

Seconds pass and I gazed into an abyss

Minutes pass and I gazed into an abyss
A murky shadow lurking

Hours pass and I gazed into an abyss
A murky shadow along two red stars

Days pass and I gazed into an abyss
A silhouette hued in rubescence grimacing with hollow eyes

Weeks pass and I gazed into an abyss
T H E  E Y E S  W A T C H  M E  W H E R E V E R  I  G O

Months pass and I observed a whole new universe
As I looked at the crevice staring back at me
It smiled and reached its hand

Years pass and I gazed into an abyss
The opaque mass piercing my glassy veil as familiarity reminiscences
A supernova of grief and destruction strokes my back, pinching my neck
The willow is dead
The moon is red
A brittle chalice crusted with blood

Then it fell silent and yet the nocturne faintly lingered in my head
As I stared into the mirror for the first time in centuries

It stared back, bearing the most unnerving grimace

I stand tall on a pillar of bones
And I look towards the sky
As magnificent wings tear open my back
Emerging from my spine
The splendour of these white feathers
That I have been gifted for my efforts
I will cherish them greatly
For they are my new pride and joy

I spread my wings and look down
These bones I stand proudly on
The lives I've sacrificed for my lord
I did everything I had to for this gift
I have slaughtered my enemies
I have slaughtered my friends
I have even slaughtered my family
All for the glory of my lord

I have assembled this tower of bones
So I can become closer to my lord
So I can bask in his grace
So I too can become a god
To swim through the skies
And be free of the horrors of down below
No sacrifice was too great for this moment
I have finally broken free

I throw my body off of my pillar
With my wings spread, I glide
I soar through the skies with pride
I flap my wings and begin to ascend
But I notice that my wings start to feel heavy
They start to grow stiff
My wings are turning to stone...
My wings are turning to stone!

Please, my lord, why is this happening!?
I did everything for you!
I gave you my entire life!
Please, please, please, let me fly!
I don't want to fall!
I don't want to fall!
I don't want to fall!
I don't want to...

Regardless of my begging
I plummet towards the ground
Engulfed in a ball of flames
I am an angel of stone
Sent down to the ground so soft
My impact will bring holy fire
I am the divine intervention
To bring an end to those who walk the same path I did.

Blank faces walk past me
A visual elegy
In the morning past the city streets
Yet everyone persists so dimly
The overcast retracts the colour from my sight
As if it is midnight
And traces, shapes of phases
My shoelaces untangle themselves and I fall
Flat

The phasing interrupts my morning stroll
Predators on the prowl
Clad in amber
Stalking through the morning night mass
Hearts locked, empty locket
Deafening the peace in its trail
Chasing my tail and once I'm had
It detains me, immobilises me, I am
Caught

The city of black and white
Has no time for shades of grey
And yet the vivid colours bond
But yet I tripped
And in the black and white streets
I was trapped in technicolor

I look up to you,
From this humble earth,
The distance between us ever-growing,
My heart increasing in pulse.

I let the days pass by,
Waiting for the nights,
So I can see you my dearest,
Shining bright.

I have found my clearest moment,
Where all reason and logic flew away,
All that is remaining,
Is a pain that eats away.

So I walk to the cliff,
Staring at you, my dearest star,
The wind gives me the final push,
And I fall, fall, fall..

My sight never leaves you,
This is the happiest I have ever been,
I want you to look at me forever,
As I find the gesture bittersweet.

We speak carefully
without naming body parts.  
As if the utterance of a word
could evoke touch – which would mean
hearts racing off in jolty cadences, sweat and
altogether too much skin.

We move with hyperawareness of our limbs.
The air ripples and reaches with each gesture
in phantoms of feeling.
I sense the edges of your fingers,
I cannot ignore the millimeters of
space between our knees.

Your mouth curves down at the edges,
when your gummy smile splits
at the things I say. I remember your lips.
I cannot put them away
in a part of me that locks.
Your mouth opening against mine –

your tongue slipping in.
Put it away.
Your mouth on the pulse below my chin.
Turning back in your doorway,
the dawn light white on your skin.
Put it away.

This wanting is something I can keep
like a mantra - a bed with you
won’t again be a bed for me.
Now we drink as strangers or friends
who once pressed their bodies against each other’s –
but heavy snow covers only blur the edges,

nothing disappears entirely.
We speak carefully

to hide the pump of blood and memory.

A calm winter night.

The street lights at the window sill did not seem to embrace my room as I was seated beyond my desk.

The unlit screen still seemed bright for when it carved its image in my eyes,
The glass display shattering in millions of shards piercing through my paper skull.

An etymology of communication, the relation of electrical currents through my crevasses,
The empty eyesockets in my skull ridden with blood, pus and ink, oozing out of my empty casket on what remained of the abandoned framework in the chair, corroded to unidentifiable bits of gore

A steaming pile of putrid mass desecrating the serenity of the chamber,
decorating the walls with mould and algae

A murky portrait indeed.

Tangling vines carress the oxidated heaps of sticks and bones, they feel it, they long for it
Mutilating the sheer remains of contorted steel and ivory as the ink chants its final tune.