gordian's knot

She’s such a fucking bitch sometimes. I wonder if she’s actually listening to me, I wonder if she’s manipulating me or if I’m manipulating her. I seem to be confused, like some rock star in disguise as a poser, a musician posed as a question; awkwardly standing, like a cocaine model with blond hair and the blankets with dusty chins covering lazy footsteps. We’re not friends anymore, you ignore my calls, you don’t want to talk to me. But I’m hanging on to every last word. “It’s Friday the thirteeth.” Ah, what day is it again? What was that Halloween, the day we first met? You were a horse that I rode into the world unseen, into the depths of confusion. To the time when flutes and clubs listened instead of being heard. Back to the place where life is death and beauty is not physically painted, like a portrait. Like a painting that cannot be expressed in words or vowels, nor can be it understood within the confines of a look, that twisted smile on your face-- Bring me back to the subtle line that divided right from wrong. Take me back to that dreamless phase, one step ahead of the game. Turn it around, it's all my fault, static shook the sound reverberating from our fingertips, this is all what you want me to believe. He couldn't explain, we got out too quick, too suddenly, as if saying goodbye became part of the routine. He couldn't deny thinking it would not be the last, just another plea to reverse the sakes. Switch positions then split. We got out just in time and the joke's still on me. Sometimes I feel as if I’m being swept underneath the tidal waves by a force without a title, forced to join the flock in a mediocre ebb and flow. Sometimes it's too damn easy to say how you feel, there's no honest way to avoid competition. “We met at this time in your life for a reason.” Oh, that’s enough. There’s something so condescending about your mind-fuck. The game of who can be more honest, more sterile. If my thoughts precede what has already happen, I can understand why I am labeled crazy as of now. They can think I’m crazy. Or weird. Or any other dismissive term that has been drilled into the mind's of average people, waiting for an outsider to step aside from the confines of what is "acceptable" and "appropriate". Safe. They can feed me diagnosis like its their job. Oh wait, it is their job! To define my teenage angst as depression or bipolar disorder. His words coming out of my mouth again, how many times have I crossed these grounds before? I go in and out of reality, in and out of a state of dreaming. Sometimes I act, sometimes I pose, sometimes I play the role of another's soul For the time being He told me not to get lost in it. He sang to me, like an old polish couple walking down the street. You won’t understand the tone of their voice because they speak in a different tongue. Something different is happening, I jumped on it and am in the waiting line, preparing for the next step to follow. No conclusion adequate enough to put the pieces back together, then separated again. It kills me, really.