In my mind

I am sitting under a tree,

unmoving,

crouching,

catching moments of silence

in between the roots,

collecting my thoughts as a dreamcatcher I got from Spain,

letting it pass through me,

reviving in its easy flow

and not letting anything out,

well not out of my mouth anyway

keep all inside so to rot easily.

Destroyed things are far more appealing in this world, I say to myself.

In my mind,

I am far from here

a one should be,

I am always hanging over my own body

cause that way I can disconnect easily.

I can stop all empathy

and pity

and call a mistake someone else's,

call my future an uncertain tragedy.

Watch the curtains slow open at the beginning,

complain about the lights,

the costume design

or actors poor acting.

Theaters are for listening to anyway, I say to myself as I close my eyelids.

In reality

I have loved myself in the eyes of others way too much,

it has become a part of my character,

part of my painted face,

part of what someone calls me, Me.

In reality

the man on a train says he does not love his wife,

the one that got away

was really the one that got away,

he's giving away his stories,

exchanges them for some strangers time,

to anyone who is willing to give it.

The man behind my seat says over the phone:

"You've done everything you could... and more,"

then he paused,

"He passed away last night" follows behind.

"I need a picture for his obituary " , comes as the words of obligation.

In reality

the moon was there too,

like an old friend

catching you in your old wardrobe,

stinking of coffee and newspapers,

asking you how you've been,

telling you, you look good,

that you look great actually,

that you seem to be the same as you have been

even thou you claim you have changed

and the moon praises when you get no sleep,

the moon praises your bloody and teary eyes,

the moon praises your bare feet,

a flash lamp and midnight snacks,

it loves your undying attention,

like a plant or a dog from the streets,

hungry,

winggling its way through life,

like an old friend meeting you accidentally and suddenly wants to know the time he skipped,

when he pressed a pause and thought that he can get back to this,

after lunch

or after tomorrow

or after graduations,

after he took care of his urges,

after my being became a shadow among people who were shadows in his life anyway,

after it was too late

but when I forgot about all that

and received gladly what it has to offer

without a second thought,

like an orphan or a dog from the streets,

looking for words of comfort,

looking for acknowledgment,

cause it is what everyone is looking for these days.

In my mind

I am home.

In my mind

I see some things I did not see before,

didn't want to,

saved it up for when I was not that busy.

In reality

I am one of the passengers of this train,

one of the 'gang with monthly tickets',

one of the regulars,

each bearing the familiar look through the window,

eyes catching moving pictures of the lake

missing the ones inside.

The train speeds up,

time here is not real,

does not pass.

The infinitive trucks

and clicks

and wooshs

hugs everyone in a hypnosis.

Here, everything is surreal,

everything is turning off

except for the machines.

The train slows down,

voices of teen boys are getting louder,

the women with a red scarf is complaining about how late she will be,

another is opening and closing her mouth,

talking, opening her mouth,

says that we are getting closer to the city.

The love that got away stays forgotten,

the phone call ends with a sight.

Train stops

and the machines wake up from a 30 min long dream.

○○○

//4/5 October 2017//