And so returns the night..

A slight and convincing novice, lie I at night,
With words so weak and a mind so active,
I give away little by sight.
And further my days, retreating inwardly,
Downward it feels, when it is only inside.
Little leaves this mouth that is truly felt,
And unhappiness is masked in irritance and terrible verse.
There should be marvellous rhyme,
There ought be fine and passionate spelling,
And yet leaks from I,
A simple salt solution of which my body is bitter and wrung.
And should we visit passion again,
Should I have a true calling,
Come ever, it’s voice, revealing it’s love for me,
Living in my breath and singing in my voice.
But no such passion has infected me,
No talent embedded in this flesh.
I am the novice that dulls the moment,
I am the weak voice at the end of a dark hall.
I am the expendable, the necessary character to move on to the next scene,
I have become little more a legend than a baby continuing to swim.
Such hope did old voices have in me,
Once I was so missed.
And now I flick at the cobwebs here, in my own dismal abyss.
As I say, however, it is not to be found around I,
But deep inside; it aches to be cleaned,
Are my fears engraved in here?
Do vile shades linger in wait?
I am placeless, and I am label-less,
I look like nothing in particular, and have about as much to contribute.
A pallor like any other,
And eyes that are eyes as they are.
Give in to sleep tonight, the unloved,
Lying by the one.
And attempt calm tonight, unloved,
Become the pain and diminish it.
I grow heavy in body, and mentally I strive to the melancholy still,
Where nothing moves on nor becomes tired nor changes,
I may be always this way.
But should it ruin it all, should it just,
That your irritated nature should dwell beside me,
And finally the wall has begun,
How hard I try still to warn.
You hear me so little through sleeping eyelids,
My nightly begging becomes prayer in slumber.
How beautiful you appear by the light of sleep,
And in this, this silence destroys me.

Room of rubble.

Yes, I have set my bags down on strange floors again, oh it has indeed been a while. It is the same city, with a different rhythm running through its vein, I myself bleed the same and yet this particular home is of different shade. I am not settled, God wonders when I ever will be, but I am calm, and slowly, my area becomes breathable, I adapt and yet still circle the edge.
I have not heard from a handful of particulars since departing again, I guess you should honestly be careful what you do ask for early on.
The first week had my dull of inspiration leaking back with a fresh vibe, the sort of trickle a mountain spring offers. The beauty of the space between the back of the taxi and the tarmac beneath, droplets of rain between, shone to me like no other. Do not call it a muse, but call it a breath.
Atop the bed I currently sit, it is not mine and yet I rest, joins me; the boxes. And many of them. Piled and coloured, bulging and half empty. Each sound beneath my large window is the delivery van I await, each creak, a possible guest of whom I am not willing to allow within yet.

I guess this should be brief, for words of my life are weak at present. I have been suffering internally, and to know one's necassary concern, it is all self-prod and question, and I unfortunately have little to soothe it. Oh but my shell, how lusciously she is treated, her skin dampening with age each day and yet soothed by a familiar and loving hand. The window we sleep beside ever brighter, and still do I hide in my shade.
It can be sweet, you know, just you. But no sweet will come without time, work and progress.
Oh do not end on a dull note! For each day is a grand oak door, for each dawn is the silk web of winter's morning and my evenings are the coloured crystal of occasion.

In case you had yet to realise, Autumn is breathing in through the window, and I inhale it's cool.
I'm coming back to life.

The Young Rambler.

The creatures that lie in the beds here,
Are the ones that once donned my bedroom walls.
I need not fear the monsters here,
For I did reside before them,
My deepest fear equipped masculinity,
It was caped in woes older than me.
When my years begin to gather,
I have written and I have witnessed the matter.

Make this true, within this natter,
I have got these things inside of me.
Rest child's eyes, and lie in the cool of stone.
The damp and the dry,
The aching, the fingers that pry,
My window was never a safeguard,
My humming nervous system did flail.


Damned away from the sun,
The same old monsters run.
As a child, I knew they would come,
During enjoyment, they waited with heaving chest and narrowed claw.

Rotted teeth and gaps in gum,
The glorious creatures shadowed.
The earth from my garden wrapped around each thumb,
Each claw, each tear in ancient, leather skin.

Is it the quiet of night that doth draw the worry,
Aware, was I, that my skeleton led within me.
Had mere younger years seen but enough?
They lurched in their places, even inhaling they bring a dull hiss.

And could my childhood ears have perked,
I pictured them at the window,
Even knowing they lived within the walls.
Still do they crawl at my hair, do they whisper at innocence.

'Oh what on earth is even holding you together?!'
And hear I, only, the response;
'Oh what is it that puts the colour in your skin?'.

-
- Notes to this piece;
Even as I speak the light dims and flickers, as if riding on my pulse. When will these demons leave me? The bell rang only once as I spoke 'The monsters were always faceless in the barn of my childhood home'.

Rain on car windows, memoir.

So the boiler bloke is here. It is vaguely awkward. I mean, a situation where you walk in and for some reason open the tea cup cupboard is always a winner. My blank gaze did him no confidence after this, and I recommended I show him where the boiler actually was.
I suppose it's in the job description some where - Walk in, open cupboard, find boiler. He does seem pretty simple. Conversation died at 'Well here's the boiler, move any thing if need be, I'll be downstairs'. In fact it did.
Up and down the stairs he goes, not a word, just expressionless glances of a man doing what a man does to survive.
I wish and pray (in my own athiestish way) that I should never have the misfortune to look so very impassionate in my life. Dear lord, i just wrote that as impassionation. My fingers are aching to write and I have been denying this freeing pleasure of rambling, and so they taunt me with words that I am rather sure do not exsist. Although that one seems as though it may.

I had a night of restless tire, just last. It was unsettling but calm and quiet. I felt not like eating, not like drinking, vaguely sickly and bodily tired. Each muscle felt as those bruised do. My eyes heavy and dry, my lips parted and dumb. And yet, sleep would not come.
Instead, as I threw down the games controller and laid my head upon familiar pillow, I recieved slow flash backs and peculiar memory. Fearful days. The music I hid within. The bands on my wrists of which i fiddled with. The white sun shining in, acting as a comfort blanket to all else. And myself, cold with fear on otherwise delightful spring afternoons.
One evening, after school, the memory portrays. Mother, and my then-stepdad wordlessly mentioned that we were going to a resturant, not far, but a drive none the less. I had seated myself in the back, both earphones in, coated in teenage angst, listening to this;
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhiwRhPS1O0

The motorway was dusty and dry, the plants skimming its edges were dull and lack-lustre for spring, the washed out sun giving them a limp appearance as the cars swept them lazily in succession. Mother and 'him' chatted rather idly, but dispassionate, all ordinaire. Not like a couple in love, not at all. A couple left, that's what they portrayed.
A resturant meal with your now-family should be something of or like pleasant. Sweet, quiet, a treat. They tried speaking to me, I am aware, although there were taunts there were also comments of schooling and friendships. Light and disintersted. As they sat opposite me, my form lingering to the left of the table as if ready to make an exit, I felt as one might when being at a job interview. I kept my head down, tucked my hands in and out of my red, cotton jacket, and fiddled with the spikes adorning my arms.

The resturant was family oriented, warm and welcoming. Picture and feel this.
The oranges and reds of a plush carpet, very much like your typical Harvester. The ivory and creams of simple walls, parted by occasional beams and wooden detailing, all polished to appear older than the fibre glass they likely are. Hints of gold in the detailing, photos of farmland and bowls of fruit, soft in stroke and copied in print. A fireplace out of sight to me, not burning, but maintaining the character of the room.
The white light of an afternoon sun slipped in through the low windows, adorned in heavy red and golden curtains, it lay upon the shimmering cutlery and circular polished stained tables lazily. It gave each glass it's own source of light, aching my eyes and giving the overall effect of clean. Of sanitary. Of safety.
Not like the drear and brown of the glass mugs we had used in the house we had not long escaped from.
Only two years before this had public places given me sanctum. I felt safe in them, with other people around, other people who probably had, in my eyes, warm homes, sweet pets, and a light that stayed on all night. But not I, for home was fear in simplicity.

This day of which I speak, i gave up. But torn was my young self, and very young I was. I had not broken into a sweat, but I felt that similar trickle, cool and threatening, slip down my spine. That fear that caught in my throat when an image ran across my mind, and for time and time i could not shake it's irrational shaking of my wellbeing.
Too afraid to see tomorrow, and yet too afraid also to die. Each, for me, seemed to bring the same unknown, the same loathing and cul-de-sac path to follow. I felt it cruel that I should have only the two as a choice. And running from either was not an option, for run, we already had. This was my destiny.
Oh how warm a light could have seemed, shining back from where I had ran from.
And yet i knew that even there, the lights were out at night.
I looked to the little public that had gathered in this resturant the same night as us. I remember none of them, as few as there were, i remember no faces, no gender, no races. Only jealousy.
Might I have a mind as blank as yours? I assumed as I looked to them, eyes wide with hopelessness. You with clean slate, may I not live simply and happily as you!
From the age of 10, I often wished myself amnesia. We would go on many a long car journey at that age, back and forth, hiding, running, through the night and early dawn. I would either lie beneath a sheet in the back of the rickety van amongst 'his' tools, or slumber in the back of a car well tracked. The rain would pound at the car, or the clear sky was breath heavily upon the windows. And I would wish, with all my might and adolescent wonder, I would pray to an unknown force that tomorrow, I may wake without memory.
I made no hold backs, no 'let me just remember this or that', just simple and utter 'I don't want it any more'.
Of course, this irrationality was pathetic, and young of I, and had I forgotten the memories I cherish I would not forgive myself inwardly, of course, however, I may have had my wish granted, and never have known of such a thing ever exsisting, only the memory of asking for it to happen in the first place.

A journey late into the night, 2 or 3 in the morning, to the east and then back again, or vice versa. I awoke in the back seat, and much like a childhood memory of a nightmare once had, I burst into tears. I cried and simply cried, and my mother in the front seat responded just as she had in the Nightmare memory;
Harsh words and misunderstanding. I made up an excuse, just as I had done as a 4 year old, and told her not of the things I had seen.

And I never did.