You make my head hurts, I want to burst my neurons into interstellar dying stars, cosmical neurotransmitter that will bite down on you like acidic mucus. Slowly, my thoughts will pull you down, leer on you like a predator. A prey, you are. Look down on all these moons, look down on all that I want you to know.
I'll write this until the end. I cannot be specific as to whom I write for but you'll know if I write of you. I cannot fathom this emptiness after days and days of being filled to the brim. Acknowledge that I cannot write to only one person. I apologize.
We were jarring. Our language was the simplest chunk of binary that computer so easily digest that it's a shame we still could not interpret what we're being fed. We're machines aren't we? I got to know you after the slow painful winter ended last year and you filled me with so much affection. Sadly, my system translate those thoughts as an intrude on my credentials, you weren't familiar and estranged and so foreign. You changed, though. It was almost like the exponential of accelearated artificial consciousness. Ray Kurzweil believes computers will be able to feel in the future. It's mutual. You think I'm heartless and I think you do not feel but we both are dying in this pool of consciousness. An evolution of the New Age. In July, I thought I could have loved you. In August, I hope I will be forgetting that you had ever gave me that piece of conscience. In September, may we all fall back into the cradling of our ancestors, dead and unliving, despair in not knowing how to express those eight characters of two's.
As restless as summer peels the layers of warmth in the heat wave, you taught me to stay awake. You with your tapping feet and shut eyes in the morning. Embodiement of rejection. Something I had never been good at dealing with but as you tug at the networks of my veins in earthly hands, I want to be deformed. Not in a bad sense, it's just you were more comforted in us being two parallel lines rather than intersectional. I'm okay with that. We roll. You were an easy love, elusive, however, like a merry butterfly in the dark of the night. A love that was slow. In the end you pulled me in, you held hostage the person I was in the past. They make lips powder from the crushed wings of butterflies. I loved you just enough to dispose of you and let you lace my lips like that. I've since forever wanted to touch you but you are close the closest star.
There would be a muse for everything I've ever written for but not every piece has its' address. You write for a friend, for a lover, fo a stranger to read, for reassurance, to get a grip on things, to retain sanity. There were nameless faces with gentle idea of a person. I liked it that you were my muse. The earnest song in the background that shifts the atoms of emotions and shape it into a mirror that I reflect my shadows on. Unknown artist. You were my muse. The likeliness and all of the songs that you have cued in your cerebrum, I am conforted to the nines for that. These pages of anatomic illustration, like Da Vinci's, I'll forever sing to the beat of your subtleness.
July haven't gave me a thought on how to process the colourless life I endure into art yet. And I'm stuck writing about things from the past. I think right now my hands belongs to the past but my head is upturned towards the Sun, peeking through the cracks of future feeling scared and uncertain if I should walk in. My heart is heavy, heavy I must say. It phased me just when in July did I became a groggy person in the morning because these temples, waves earthquakes from the rubble of the mind that I can't look at the sky and smile anymore. Kept falling asleep in the backseat. I don't even care for the blinking light of the signal tower anymore. I lost it all, shed it all like it was cheap for me. Godforsaken.
To the person next to me, I am sorry I wasn't a good friend; to the person in front of her, I'm sorry I never was a help; to the person three desk from the entrance, I'm sorry I was a liar; to the person in the next room, I apologize I for my lack. To the person at the end of the hallways, I am sorry I am a two-faced bitch to you. To the person under this floor, I apologize for I am such an insensitive bitch. To those who have hopes for me, I'm sorry I'm easily swayed. To July, I apologize for wasting you away stowed under my blanket even in the heatwave. Life is no longer technicolour for me but I think it's good to be neutral. To myself, I apologize for me. I should stay and I will do so. We'll get through.
