Through a light in the window,
I find myself screaming at the distance;
staring at the world in my head
and wondering why
the world’s gaze stares past me.
I reach for answers that never come
and pretend to feel whole
when holes are all that run through me,
draining the last traces of emotion.
I fix my eyes on the clouds,
as my mind talks casually to itself.
I eavesdrop unintentionally
as my shuffling feet drift in circles.
It’s not true what they say about numbers.
How can there be safety in numbers
when the numbers don’t see me;
when the voices closest either do not hear or prefer not to listen;
they are too afraid to carry the burdens of my weighty thoughts.
Alone,
I watch myself looking out at the world,
shaking off the stains of persistent solitude.
I soon realise what is real.
The voices, the quiet sounds, the shadows.
They all speak but not as refrains of loneliness or grief.
They are rhythms of organised noise –
the types of noises that roll through my head
when I stop to gather fragments of thoughts.
I stare again at the light in the window,
fixating on spaces, hoping to find comfort.
I try to collect dreams and fabricate memories,
as my eyes gaze blankly at cracks in time
where I do my best thinking.
where I excel at pretending.
where I make believe
and carve loud smiles to fool the world.