Ray tells stories using language

It’s been years since we last spoke, And yet you linger in the corners of my mind. Hate for you fills the heart you once broke, And dreams of running into you fill my night.

I want to let go,  I want to stay indifferent to the mention of your name, But there was no closure, For there is no end to your game.

They write songs about this kind of love.

The kind that lingers years after, That borders on obsession, That forces me to still think about you, To jump at the mention of your name,  To wonder about who you became, The kind of love that feels like drowning and like flying through the air. Like a rollercoaster on which you enjoy the poisonous adrenalin running through your veins.

They write songs about this kind of love.

Because it keeps you wanting to drawn even when you’re already gasping for air. 

I sing those songs, put all that emotion in every tone as I try to let go of at least a little bit of the want to drawn.

Through the flurry of colour, and strokes,

at the end of the tunnel filled with art,

in the square room full of gods and Fae of the times old,

I saw him, me, him, me, him, me,

Merlin.

Not yet a man old, wise, sporting a silver beard,

but the young man full of wonder,

learning still to control his fire,

this element of power to wield.

A young man learning about the frail balance of the world,

the balance of good and bad, the yin and yang of his time.

I saw myself in his eyes trying to understand this world of mine,

the unwritten rules of this space and time I fell into.

As he is learning to wield his fire, I am learning to wield mine,

find the line between too little and too much.

Between too loud and too quiet, too strong and too weak.

The sweet spot of existence where you can feel complete.

I fill the space with food and my mind with anything to focus at.

When I can’t breathe in the empty appartment, I would do anything to escape.

But I still take care to find another way then through the 10th floor window.

I read and read untill wee hours of the morning to keep my mind from cathastrophising before sleep.

Asking for help when I can

and screaming out all that I previusly bottled up.

The silence is hurting my ears it sratches at my brain and makes me sit rigidly still.

My ears hear a high pitched noise so they don’t have to hear the silence.

I can hear the fridge work, electricity sreaming in the walls of my home and the main street humming with cars and busses.

And still the silence feels empty.

My heart beats too fast.

I eat to combat the emptiness in myself.

And I clench my muscles against the pressure of the too heavy air.

But I am strong, I will play myself a sad song and hopefully someday it will be easier to just be

Alone

With myself