четвъртък, 10 септември 2015 г.

the flying dutchman

 of all the poisonous tentacles, growing out of the heart of the creature we call fear, the worst is not the guilt, not the shame, not the anger or desperation,
but it is the apathy
apathy
blind and shapeless and colourless, silent and as soft as a cotton ball when it is pressing on your senses, higher than the sky, lower than the bottom you thought you already hit.
And you cannot cry.
You are not even complaining.
It is not desperation. It is not anger or pain. It is lying on your chest like a mountain you can not cross.
dont we have a lot of poets writing about it?
from the depths of their "writer s block" or whatever it is. Burying their quills in the ink and trying to pour the blood of the apathy on the clean sheets.
But you can not bleed it dry.
And it is staring at you from the whiteness like a devil's abyss.
you can not bleed it dry.
you can sing it to sleep, if you are persistent enough, but at the dawn of another day, on the brink of a new capital it will open its eyes and a cotton-soft growling will come out of his throat.
I am not begging for forgiveness anymore, nor am I making more excuses.
It is what it is.
I am burying the quill in the leftovers of my heart and the red ink is raining like a waterfall of  autumn leaves over the freezing ground.
Its really coming this time, the autumn.
And the monster inside me, above me, beyond me is stretching its shapeless body.
It is what it is.

Oh Ariadne, I am coming, I just need to work this maze inside my head.


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