Nightblindness

there was a time when he wasn't frowned upon. gentle downturn of the lips, perhaps, but never an outright flexing of those particular 23 muscles that'll transform your face from smooth lines to harsh creases. creases that'll etch themselves into the bone, held long enough, boring deep into your mind and leaving an imprint of what you see before you, now, and leaving it forever as the only image you'll ever be able to conjure up when you hear my syllables uttered.

he was free.

but he lived in a box.

even so, when you're young, and if the box is large enough, you don't even realize it's there. boundaries are far off conditions that can be safely ignored in the here and now, when there's so much else to do. so many people to see, to talk to, so many hills to climb, so many beaches to make castles on, so many roads to bike down, so much air to breathe.

the trouble is, he never really got it. had it. made it. while you were exchanging a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage (thank you, PF), he was idly ambling through crumbling cobblestone roads in the old quarter of berlin. and as it came crashing down around him, he thought 'i wonder if it'll hurt to die?'. that's how he grew up, wondering how it would feel to die. would it hurt? would it burn? and when the final stone hit and knocked him unconscious would he conveniently fall and fill the space in your creases?

dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, dark room, dark notes hanging in the summer breeze for an instant, before being carried down the way and to the left. blue-white light, burning, brightly, so very intensely underneath a layer of skin, flesh and bone. burning everything around it, neatly enclosed in a little box with a gold clasp and a beautiful silver lock, with no keyhole. curtains drawn, tightly, wrapped ever so lovingly around a shining blue flame. blue. white. blue. white.

he spoke with his tongue, but he implored with his eyes. under carefully arched eyebrows (a maneuver he spent so long perfecting) you could just about make out what he really meant. blue. white.
he told you to move on, but he begged you to dig deep. he closed the front door, but he begged you to find a way through the back. he told you to stay on the warm, safe, sand, but he begged you to feel the water swishing against your ankles. his right shook your hand, and his left held on for dear life.

at night, he was free. at night, he was me. at night, he was alone, and at night he could gently lull himself into sleep, whispering into his own ear how it all wasn't so bad. he didn't have to die today. he didn't have to believe any of it. he couldn't help himself, but he saved himself every night. one tugging, the other pulling. blue. white.

half-awake, he'd walk around the paved roads in your shiny city, whispering to himself constantly. this is where you went to work today. it isn't real. this lamp was flickering earlier. it isnt your fault. she was already gone, you never pushed. he knew what you meant, it's alright. it's not your fault. it's not your fault. it's not your fault. it's not your fault..it's not your fault.

alarm clock, the world's coffee black and egg white again. switch. chop, change, don't forget to hear me whispering in your ear. i'm always there. don't forget. don't believe them. they only look at your clothes, the same old threadbare jeans, faded to white, worn away at the knees. don't listen..hush...it's alright...it's ok..trust me. trust in me. i believe in you. i have faith. listen to me..i'm your candle flame. focus on the wick..focus........keep watching. it's not your fault.