mediocrity is art

at least one poem gets posted per day at 12:00 pst (when i have poems to post - sometimes the queue is faster than my motivation). i shuffle the queue daily, there is no rhyme or reason to the order in which they get posted in. other poems may rarely be posted throughout the day.

you may send inquiries or messages about anything, if you so wish.

o space, the concept of miles, why wont you just let me be by my girlfriends side? thats all i ask. all i ask is to be with her, to hold her in the night. thats all i ask. thats all i ask. surely its not too much, to fold the fabric of the universe just this once, place me where i belong. to bridge this gap, thats all i ask.

oh, i would, i would, all the things that i would do, but what i will is wait. i will wait until i can be there, even for a day, i will wait until i dont have to ever leave your side. i will wait for the time in which i can cup your face in my hands once more, gently kiss your forehead, whisper to you that itll all be alright, my love. i will wait, and i will stay. i will do anything i can, to make the future possible. i will do what i can.

o time, the concept of hours, why wont you just skip forward to that future? thats all i ask. for the future where i am with her, for the future where i dont have to long. thats all i ask. thats all i ask. surely its not too selfish, to want to skip to the better part, when sleeping with her in my arms is a familiar comfort. to fast-forward, thats all i ask.

oh, i just want to hold you at night. give you a good nights kiss, and just be there. thats all i want. to hold you. i just want to hold you. to not be so infinitely far away (1492km) when all i want is to give you a hug. even if it doesnt fix everything, whatevers happening in your life, thats all i want. to be there with you. to not have the delay of even instant messaging, of video calls latency. to just be there, where i belong, where i can trace patterns into your skin, tangle my fingers in your hair, hold you, and never leave you alone.

(o lover, dont you see? the distance wont shrink, but time will pass and youll drag space into a single point, eventually. all it is is eventually. thats a truth you can hold onto. the weight of a lifetime will overshadow a couple of years - which are still years of love, of contact, of trust, of life. theres time beyond that. therell be time. therell be a lifetime. youll hold her again.)

Here you go, hold onto that carefully. This hand goes there, the other a bit below it. Perfect! You're a natural at this. Have you done this before?

Okay, now see the X? Marked out in red? Yes, good- Bring the crowbar up. Heft it over your shoulder, behind your head. Make sure the sharp end is pointed towards me! Do you feel ready? You look ready. You know what you want! I like it.

Aim for the spot. You know what you want. I'm ready. You'll get what you need. This is your cue. Go.

[…]

if i were to rebuild my walls, theyd be papier mâché. easy to break, perfect to cut, flimsy until left out to dry. reinforced only via diy. i wouldnt find the old brick i once used.

[…]

i'm not screaming what are you talking about it's the process you're doing doing great you're almost there within reach what you need

that soup is my brains pick out in that mush whatever you need memories like to hide themselves you'll need to dig deep don't be scared

no i marked the spot right i promise i'm sure it's there my words won't reach it pull it out it's there i swear please look i made sure

i'm sorry it hurts it shouldn't hurt it was intended i wanted you to don't be upset i wasn't sabotaging it was there for you to pull out

why does it hurt

hand me the paper the glue the flour the water i'll fix it i promise i'll find the right spot next time i can't pull it out for you i don't remember

You'd never imagined yourself as the director of a play. You've always liked plays, of course - as far as you can remember, at least. But you'd always been in the audience. Never onstage, never a pen in your hand, writing lines and scenes.

You were comfortable there, watching from the seats. Observing someone else's hard work play out, never a part of the action. There was nothing for you to write, to create or control. That has never been why you've enjoyed plays.

You never asked for this, now. This pen in your hand, unable to go back and scratch out what's already written. (Ironic.) How funny is that? This is your play, but there's no edits you can make. It's hilarious. What's already scripted is set in stone. Familiar. You know everything on this stage and how it ends.

Your eyes hurt from the light. The spotlight shines, forever blinding you. But you're sure there's no one in the audience (you're the only witness), and you've long since memorised your script. All you can see is the stage of your own creation, the actors' faces obscured too.

Your thoughts hurt. They cut. Your mouth moves on its own, repeating those practised lines, and you don't know what you think. It's happiness, you tell yourself. That you're here, onstage, part of that which you've always loved. This is where you're meant to be.

You're everything. This play is for you. The director, the lead actor, the audience. Every line, unchangeable yet perfectly crafted for what you want. You got it right when you wrote this, so don't get tired of it now. This is what you wanted.

You try to forget that the actors are unwilling, that this was never their choice. (You're an actor, too, you do forget.) It's alright that you can't see past the light into their eyes, what matters is their words, not the hatred you're sure you'd find.

Here's a gift for you: a violin. Crafted by my grandfather, look at those perfect curves! Strings wound just right, tuned to perfection. I promise it'll never go out of tune. Protect it with all you've got. It means- Sorry, meant, a lot to me.

Here's a gift for you: a ring. Stolen from the highest royalty, look at those shining jewels! Edges cut just right, polished to perfection. I promise it'll never scratch. Protect it with all you've got. It means- Sorry, meant, a lot to me.

Here's a gift for you: a statuette. Found at a thrift store, look at this discarded beauty! Shapes carved just right, formed to perfection. I promise it'll never tarnish your space. Protect it with all you've got. It means- Sorry, meant, a lot to me.

Here's a gift for you: a piece of the moon. Brought down here to earth, look at that otherworldly nature! Rock made to reflect, witnessed in its perfection. I promise it'll be special forever. Protect it with all you've got. It means- Sorry, meant, a lot to me.

Hold out your hands, if you cup them just right you can hold all of it. My gifts, my treasures, I've held onto them for years. No, I don't look barren without them, no, keep them close to you. You look so empty.

Please don't drop them. I've one last thing to give to you. Sorry, I know you've no space left to hold things, but it's just one last thing. I'm sure you can carry it. It'd mean a lot to me. Hold it just so.

Do you miss me? When you breathe, do you miss me? Do you feel my absence, your lungs too big; you don't have to breathe for me anymore now, do you? There's too much space; do you feel empty without me? Are you?

Do you miss me? When you talk, are your words warped, twisted from what they would've been? Could've been? Should've? Would they have been the same if I was never there? Still there? Never there? Still there? Are they echoes of me; my words, my meanings? Did you steal them from me, give them, keep them, fail to rid yourself of them?

Do you miss me? When you smile, is it strained, do you miss me? Your lips, do they crack at the edges, does my ghost (not me) pull at the corners, your hands fall down, do you keep smiling for me? Does it make you happy? You feel sick, don't you?

Do you miss me? When you cry, do you stare at your tears? Pick them off your checks, hold them gently, whisper that it'll be alright, that they're meant to be there (like you used to do for me)? Do you watch them slip off your fingers?

Do you miss me? When you blink, they hurt, don't they? Your eyes? Though the fog, do you see, the truth, do you see it? Are you making it up? Imagining it? Just out of your grasp, do you reach for it? Were your eyes lying to you? Your eyes?

Am I missing from you? Did you lose a limb; did you get a bigger range of motion? Did you lose an ear; did you start hearing what you never did before? Did you lose a tooth; did you begin to be able to eat those hard foods? Did you lose your/my heart; do you still live? Am I missing from you?

You're the only one in the audience. The stage is empty, and you wait.

The lights dim, and a distant song starts to play. You think it's starting, so you sit on the edge of your seat. It's almost time. The show's beginning.

An actor waltzes out onstage. Your eye follows his every movement, careful and intricate. His motions flow perfectly with the music, and not a single word slips from his mouth. All you can hear is the music, all you can see is his dancing. It's beautiful.

Someone else eventually joins him. This second actor looks familiar, just enough that it's uncanny. It makes you uncomfortable.

He fits into the first one's dance perfectly, like he was always meant to be there. The first even looks more balanced with him there.

Your breath is stuck in your throat, captivated as you are by their performance.

Something changes. You can't quite tell what, but as you watch the second dancer, you realise that it's your work, this music that backs their actions. He looks so at home there. Something in you hates the notion.

It all goes by in a blur, you still feel like you can't breathe. Like something is choking you. You don't even know how long it's been since you blinked.

The music changed long ago, to another tune you don't know. You wonder how they're not tired yet. The first one dances on relentlessly, his partner following suit. They still haven't said anything. Actors in a silent dance don't talk.

And you're comfortable in your seat, entranced as you are.

But you notice something, just out the corner of your eye. There, off-stage, a movement. And you can't pay attention to their dancing anymore.

There's someone there. And you want to (you try to) scream at the dancers that there's someone there- but your voice is just as silent as theirs, and you still can't breathe. Something bad is going to happen if you don't do anything. You know it. You know it for a fact.

It rips out of your throat, taking everything with it, the name of that second actor. You forget it instantly, but he breaks his dance, just for an instant, and looks at you. You were not supposed to be able to shout at him.

And your legs can move again, you feel lightheaded but you jump through the seats, clamber up onstage. The two stare at you in their silence.

Onstage, the lights are blinding, the instant you set foot up there. But you point in the general direction of what you saw, and though you can't see, you can breathe now, and you know that they turned to look. The music is still going.

You hear footsteps, and your eyes adjust to the lights, out emerges a third actor. And everything slips from balance.

The music sounds so familiar. But you know it's not yours. you weren't meant to hear this music again.

With music comes dancing, and through the broken balance, a third actor now onstage, the dance picks back up, taking you with it. You didn't come here to dance. Your role is supposed to be over.

That never mattered, though and you stutteringly, unpractisedly, follow the movements.

It hurts. Dancing hurts. Words won't leave your throat again, and you want to leave. Go back to your seat.

You try to watch the third dancer, through your own spinning. His movements are rough, wrong, mechanical. A feeling of dread settles itself right where your breath used to be stuck. Finally, you move off to the sides. Your part is over, but you can't leave the stage yet. It's up to you to watch.

He's not meant to be there either, this third actor. (You don't count. You're not an actor in this show.) You're sure of it. This is a play meant for two, and there's too many people here now.

The first one seems to recognise this too, as his movements grow stilted, his wordless grace breaking down. But you watch only the second actor, holding your breath even as it's not stopped. You're sure you know him. You are. And he's still dancing, not a stutter in his step. Unaware.

It happens so suddenly. The first's graceless dancing leads him to the second, stumbling and jagged. And then he's standing over him, his fingers digging into the second dancer's throat. Now he can't breathe either.

And the blood spills out across the floor, lapping at your feet. From where you stand, you can see the stars leave the familiar eyes of the dead second actor. This is your fault, you're sure.

The music stutters, breaks that familiar (wrong) tune. You can't look away from that corpse. It doesn't feel right that you're able to breathe right now. But breathe you do, and you exhale, and find yourself back in your seat. Like you never left. You don't think you'll be able to force your way back onstage.

Yet, you do want to go back up. You need to stop this, stop the now-two actors onstage, silently dancing around the slowly-cooling corpse of someone whose death you just watched. Surely it would've been worse, if you hadn't managed to point it out. Right? The dance is back in equilibrium, with these two. But it feels like a mockery of what it was before.

You can't stand up, go to them. Knock down the fourth wall again, pull them off that stage of blood. You're chained to your seat, and short of breath once more. So you just watch. All you ever do is watch. It's entrancing in the worst way possible.

(Someone dies the instant that you make an effort to help.)

Sometimes, your eyes drift over to the third dancer, and you hollowly observe the way he seems to get more and more comfortable. Filling the role he's taken.

And the first stumbles, where he never did before. You don't like this.

More blood spills, an unknown actor killed offstage, by the sure movements of the third. The first doesn't react.

You can see the red stains crawl up their clothes.

This melody is another one you wrote, you're sure of it. But it's wrong. Its complex harmonies simplified, the repetitive rhythmic arrangements, references to other pieces, gone. A mere shadow of what it was meant to be. You know you can't scream, but you sure try.

Neither of them looks at home here, with this reduced music. You want this to end already. Please.

Dripping off the edge of the stage, onto the floor, there is blood now. You're sitting up high. It won't reach you. You just watch.

Slowly, a new actor steps onstage. Your heart stops. You think you know them, from somewhere. And you try to stand up, scream at them to leave. But you can't move. And you can't remember the last time you inhaled.

The balance splinters with the new presence. You have a feeling that it'll fix itself soon, somehow. For now, you stay in your seat, observe their fractured dance.

They, the fourth actor, can see the blood all over the stage, you're sure of it. The other two ignore it, dance straight through it, leaving it behind in their footsteps. But they, they try to avoid it. Step a bit to the side, sink a little less than they would've into the puddle. It's impossible to really get around it. They showed up with their clothes already stained, afterall.

How discordant the act is, with the fourth there (without the second there), is hypnotising, It's beautiful in all the worst ways. You wish that they'd all just leave.

But they don't. None of them do. And even as they dance to the melody, spin with the others, the fourth casts revolted looks at the corpse they dance around, whose blood their feet splash up.

And you can swear their name is just on the tip of your tongue. If only you could shout it, maybe then, they'd turn to you, get off that stage. You'd figure everything out, together. Things would be fine.

Names are a dangerous thing though, and you remember what happened the last time you shouted a dancer's name. So you don't. You can't. And as always, there's nothing to do but watch as you're sure the end draws near.

You can see the moment, when it shatters. It's all almost over. You're scared. You want to cry. You can't.

The fourth's dance hesitates, and that's enough. You hurt for them. The third actor stands over them, there, laying on the ground. He's ready to do something. The scene feels so familiar.

Knowing what the something probably is, has to be, you try to screw your eyes shut, remind yourself to breathe. You can't. An outside observer can't close their eyes, what would be the point of you being there, then? It's up to you to witness.

But the first turns towards you. He looks scared. Guilty. Agonised. And witness you can't, as the curtain starts to lower.

There's no more music.

Scene: The fourth actor (you should remember their name); laying on the ground, arms up to try to protect themselves. The third actor (you never knew him); standing over the fourth, poised, ready to do what he needs to. The second actor (you regret remembering who he is); unmoving, still dead in the centre of the stage. The first actor (you want to just talk with him); staring at you, off to the side. Pleading. You can't help. You, not an actor (who even are you?); in the audience, watching, as you're meant to do.

And the curtain closes.

You never see the final scene.

Here's what I've got to tell you: I'm glad you've never told me sorry. It's always been sorry from you, to other people, to those you spend ceaseless days remembering.

It's always been sorry that you whisper as you look up at the moon, point out a shooting star. When you finger that earring I gave you, feel the grooves in that spyglass at your side.

I've heard you say sorry so many times. I don't like hearing it from you. What have you to be sorry about? You've done everything right, every action commendable.

Shouldn't you have realised that by now? There's a reason why we're here now, on this cliff - you've never liked cliffs - when it's almost the end.

You've made it this far, lived this long, only because you've done that which you say sorry for.

Don't say it now, please. I don't need to hear it. You should know that; the sorry isn't meant for me.

I'll follow you to every single end, every plan of yours, no matter what. You don't need to apologise for that, even as this end comes.

Keep those hands of yours still. Really, it's been long enough that you should know by now. Be careful. You know how this will end if you're not.

Keep your eyes off the target- no! They're not your target. That's called a friend. You have those. Don't focus in on them in that way.

Keep your mind away what will happen if your concentration slips. If you let yourself think, your thoughts drift away.

Keep your hands steady, keep your eyes off them, keep your mind away. You don't know why you're like this, but you'll avoid it.

Keep your instincts inside. You shouldn't have them. But you do and so you have to deal with them Why did you have to end up in a place like this, where you itch to just choke-

Remove all the details. All those little in-jokes, built over hours of collaboration. Scratch them out on the blueprints, simplify their purpose. It can't be the way that it used to be anymore.

Pray that someday, she'll come back. Bring with her a solution on a silver platter, as she always does. Everything will make sense once she's here. Once she's free.

Even when she doesn't show up, hold out hope. She'll be fine. She always is. If she's dead too, then that's a weight that can't be borne. Don't think about it.

There's no one to talk to no one who knew about him. Words are things that cannot be spoken if all that's given in reply is a blank stare, an accusation of so many things. That's the fear. So, stay quiet.

Check to see if she, the one person who could understand, has responded. Daily. Hourly. Maybe next time there'll be something, finally.

Time is something that there's too much of, now Try not to panic, think too much. She'll be back, it'll all get figured out. It will turn out that he's still alive, that misremembering was the culprit once more.

But there's a certain monotony to it. The sheer desperation, thought overwhelming coherency. Difference from how it used to be, how it should be, makes the heart turn to stone.

The messages window is as empty as ever, she's still missing. It's assured that something is wrong with him. There's no other way. This isn't something that a mere puzzle-crafter was made to handle on their own.

Dreams are a thing that like to blur into reality. They twist and contort themselves into a shadowy mockery of a half-remembered/forgotten memory. There's lots of those. What's another?

One might decide that this ceaseless, slogging, excruciating dread, is the product of such a case. Because surely, she'd've been free by now, and he'd never have let something like that happen to him. It would make sense, for it to be a dream.

Differentiating between those dreams and that which is real, is an acquired skill, though. One that anyone would've acquired after this long. Which leads to a single, appalling conclusion. the doubts have changed nothing.

Only one other person is left who could know. Who does know. The one who should've been back long ago could still come back. She will. But the words itch the silent throat, and isolation is a painful, horrible, familiarity.

Thoughts have a tendency to not leave on they've been planted. This person is the one whose fault Everything is in the first place. Still though, he knows. He knows about the person he (probably) killed, and that's enough.

Efforts were made to keep him safe, even if they failed. Even with everything that he's done. He doesn't seem to be doing good either, Especially with that thing at his side. It's an idea that doesn't leave; to contact him. Talk.

"I'm sorry," reads the message. Not from her. It's from him. He, who did the unspeakable. And it's a confirmation of every worst fear. The idea that it was a dream was a futile one either way.

He really is dead, is the only conclusion that can be drawn. Dead and replaced. Surely, her fate was different. But no, don't reply to his messages. The confirmation is bad enough, there's no need to talk to him. It'd be worse.

Here's what I'll say at your eulogy: You never really knew me. You never knew me, but you were a fine partner to work with. Your death is a blight upon the world, and we'll all miss you. I'm sorry we didn't have the time to get to know eachother for who we really are. You deserve better than this. Thank you for getting me out of there. I wish you could have come with.

Have you ever wondered if the sky watches you? If every one of those little stars is a distant open eye? Watching you, carefully cataloguing your every movement. Picking you apart. An eternal presence.

Do you look up at them and hope that even one of them is him? That he watches you from those stars that he's always loved, and keeps an eye on you? Sees how much you regret it all?

Really, do you even want him to be seeing it all? Is that something you really want? For him to see how sorry you are, how fucking sorry, you're sorry. Every little thing that you've done the lies you've told yourself and everyone.

Should you even consider the notion? Doesn't it hurt? The idea that he might know. His memory you've erased, in the minds of everyone but you. And you didn't mean to do so, but really, what you've meant to do hasn't mattered in a long time. He's still be here if it did.

Does he hate the idea that you sit there, at the closest thing he has to a grave, and try to pretend that he's still there? That you've gone from one form of denial to another. Never, ever able to accept that he's gone, and it really is your fault.

Has he picked out the meanings of the flowers you've left behind for him? Watching, has he gone through them all, wished he could pick up that yellow carnation meant for him and tear it up? Never accepting what you're trying to say.

How much of your time do you spend thinking about that? Oh, you're always such a selfish thing, in the end. You're meant to be grieving but all that falls from your lips are apologies, and all that haunts your mind are the memories and prayers that he wouldn't hate you.

You've decided a long time ago, though, haven't you? That of course he'd hate you. He's have to follow suit in the fact that you hate yourself. It's all your fault afterall. You're the reason why he's dead. Do you even have the right to plead for his forgiveness?

You didn't believe for even a second that you could trust him, even all the way from the start of it all. But still, you smiled, mimicked his strange actions, did what he wants. It's for your safety.

You think he's a good liar. It's obvious why he thinks that his tricks will work on you; they clearly have worked before. But you're careful. Trust isn't something you have.

You note the way he glances to his partner beside him, the other people meant to be his enemies. Those glances don't mean safety. He's up to something, you know it. How could he think he's subtle?

You think that maybe you're just paranoid. There's no one else in this room that will talk to you, why not trust him, just this once? No reason not to. Maybe he's right. But something tells you he's not. That's more believable.

You hate that smirk he always wears, as he thinks his plan is working, that you're falling into his traps. He thinks you're doomed to the fate he's laid out for you, concluded that he's won. And you let him think that, just for now.