2024 Author: Harry Day | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 15:43
What can I say about mental pain? In itself, this is not a question, it is a compromise between a cry of despair and a lingering quiet whine. Inside there is something that knows you from this side, there you are an eternal child in the vicinity of your childhood, you live looking at the grass breaking through on the railway rubble, leaves, ripe plums, water in a puddle, all this is the pain of your soul, torn off and thrown away by time. And these experiences are forever with me, I live in them, and they are not with me, this is all that I have now, something that is saturated with feelings entering memories from the outside, filling them with its shadow, which resurrects in this world the eternal night visible on the horizon terminator line.
I see it in every face, day and night, each time breaking through into my memory in those moments of distinct connection with my real essence. Perhaps now, I am that boy, hung with the old sins of my relatives, vile, but warm, warming, but with a feeling of dankness, these clothes have always been a little warmer than the air outside. So are my feelings. This boy is me, I have doubts about who is writing all this now. Perhaps now I am the bearer of the memory of the shocking penetration into the image of my sensual body, which contained everything that was in a state and … turned off. After all, it happens, I have seen this around more than once, just at one moment everything ceases to exist as something changing, and only a thin line of access to the sensual body remains, the wound oozes, this disease is incurable, at least not now.
Everything there was in the form of episodes under discussion, plotted on a solid time carrier, when it was hot, sometimes cold, always uncomfortable, always scary, always tomorrow morning or tonight. You breathe out and it becomes easier, you need to run along the fields with sunflowers, you can steal, fall into thick grass and feel the coolness of the flooded slurry in your hands, here everywhere there is pain from instantly unfulfilled desires, from a dead unborn intrigue, from tired hope, a lot of despair, a lot of fatigue, a lot of childhood in the quotes of adulthood, and these tattered clothes on me, and a nagging pain in my chest.
As a professional waiter, I carry my glass filled to the brim without spilling a drop; you can learn to be smooth only by holding a crystal vase on your head. My happiness lies in the fact that I can feel this pain, every time I dress the wound, I smile a little, and this is that moment of happiness when I am really glad that I am like this. As it is.
I can't say anything about pain, because I don't know much about anything else. This is a stream of feelings, always so complex, in everyone I meet, in any of my views on anything, this is me. And no matter how much magic music sounds in my head, I know, then, everything will be as it is. I see it as something beautiful, changing, giving a sense of the need for the moment, the value of what is happening in the inevitable emptiness of disappearing meanings. This melody has a beautiful look and every time it hurts, every time it hurts in the chest, it often hurts in the head, the eyes close from spasms, the skin cracks like the earth on which I walked then, a long time ago.
I am that hole in the ground that was formed by pulling up weeds in the garden. A fractal of the human soul enclosed in a variable field of my imagination. And it hurts.
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