The Amalgamation

‘But do you care enough to deserve it?’ says the silver snake,

Coiling around you with hurt in its eyes;

Its heart is so big and beautiful and broken,

A thousand shades of a million colours as it cries its heart out-

Every problem an insurmountable accelerando,

Every piece of panic transformed into opera,

Every joyous occasion reaching a shining pinnacle-

Before it crumbles into the pits of despair, a shimmering blue fog that lies on the floor of your home,

And as you walk through it, you see the imprint your footprints leave in the smoke, before that everlasting fog slowly drizzles back in to complete itself.

‘Do you care enough?’

And there you sit, having learnt over time,

That if you speak your fear like an orange flame,

It will spark and catch the fog alight,

And your home will burn in the snake’s fiery distress-

So you learnt to hide it, contain your flames,

Keep a shield of grey between your colourful palette,

And the sheer beautiful power of the snake-

And now, even your golden glow of caring, of wanting,

Has dulled to a pale yellow that you can barely even notice.

‘I will get it for you. If you care.’

And you say

‘No. I don’t care. I can’t care. I never cared. I don’t deserve it.

I never deserved it.’

And the praise and the love and the life turns away,

The snake going back to its own chorus,

To shower itself in its desires to fulfil the blazing glory of its heart-

You watch.

And you hope, that one day,

Is always the victor

And 'easier to do'

Always comes in second place

But the 'sometimes'

That come on a dark night, as melodies pour through you from those tinny headphones;

That come in a museum as you see the ancient instruments that outpace many of the ones of today;

That come when listening to a symphonic orchestra- your heart wrenching not because the music is some sort of masterpiece

(in fact, the second violin just missed a note, and the french horn is decidedly off key)

But because you know it will never be you up on that stage.

Hopes and dreams that come through on a 'sometimes' can never even compete, forced to lie on the wayside,

Nothing more than a daydream, but even then you have

No time to dream.

(it could've been you up on that stage-

if it was a 'most of the time', so you could spend your days with your fingers dancing across the notes,

if it was an 'easier to do', so you didn't need to chase diagnosis after diagnosis to find out why the world of woodwinds has been closed off to you-

it could've been you.

but now, you sit in the aftermath, the silence,

an eternal performance of 4'33''

resting in the footnotes of your own life

Plus I've not been the person furthest forward in months...

My family, my friends- the world around me.

Seeing a bird on the wing, making its miniscule adjustments to have a perfect arc, a perfect landing.

Listening to a duet, with the parts melding beautifully with eachother, accentuating eachother in ways that would be impossible alone. One dancing in the wind, while the other keeps them grounded in the melody.

Seeing the hues of cracked glowsticks, a manmade rainbow of colours in the dark of the night- a hushed night, serving as the perfect backdrop for anything that dares to exist within it.

How could anyone choose to give all their love, to just one person?

My love doesn’t fit in my own hearts, why would I try to make it fit in theirs?

A million hearts, for a million things. A million days, good or bad, each with their own purpose in this silly little thing we call life.

Sometimes, you think others are faking. You roll your eyes behind the screen, but keep your mouth shut. Who are you to ruin their fun, or otherwise to point out a deep flaw within their very being, a cry for help as their mind tumbles down around them, a product of a society who never cared for them?

Society is a cruel thing. We are locked within our cages, and shake our heads as we spot others in their prisons, unaware that our own hands are entangled in the bars that hold us back.

Unaware that we are left to be our own wardens.

Sometimes, you try to ignore that which you don’t understand. You don’t want to be ‘disrespectful’, so you pretend you are not on a world on which the Other exists. You do not even try to learn.

You don’t want to be ‘disrespectful’, so you show them no respect.

Sometimes, the only way to become respectful is through a twist of fate, in which it turns out the Other you tried to ignore, and the You that turned away from it, are one and the same. Then, finally, you learn. You Respect.

It shouldn’t have to be like that. And yet, we open that door, congratulating ourselves. Successful in nothing but widening our cage, making it to the next set of locked doors. Succeeding in nothing but looking at ourselves- never Others- as if we were the flat earth at the centre of the cosmos.

It’s like a Hall of Mirrors- each is the same person, but with a slightly different perspective on what’s important. Each showing slightly different emotions, due to distortions in the mirror, distortions in what we can see.

As I walk down this hall of life, I change, and my reflections change with me. Most of the time, there is no distinction- we’re one and the same, our edges blurring together. Other times, our different opinions clash, and I’m left with the knowledge that every decision is Right, trying to then determine which one could possibly be Wrong as well. 

People are complex creatures. Millions of neurones firing at once, an intricate ballet no more complicated than a computer, and yet is indescribable in comparison.

How do others have such strong opinions, not constantly backtracking on themselves? Its fascinating, imagining whether there’s something wrong with them, or with me. Perhaps its natural variation in the human population. It’s strange how people insist on classifying themselves by such superficial things as gender and skin colour, when each and every brain, each and every way of thinking, is astoundingly different.

Do other people also have this barrage of emotion, cancelling itself out as you try to disentangle the web, find out which part of you wants what, what their reasoning is?

Do they hear it, but simply push it to the back of their mind, favouring a certain part that is louder than all the rest? 

I have so many questions- and yet, I will never have answers. Words are a fickle thing, that can never truly encompass what is really occurring in our brains, in the emotions of every person on this small planet. 

But if that is true, then they must be made of one-way glass.

I know they’re looking at me, but are they watching?

Listening, but are they hearing?

I can’t see the emotions behind the glass, and I’m left wondering if there’s anything there at all,

Or if I’m just sitting in an empty room, trying to look comfortable when no one’s there to judge at all.

If I tap on the glass, will they respond?

How do I talk to a person I can’t see?

One-way glass, and a porcelain face, 

Identical to all the others.

Am I like that to them too? Have I got that inscrutable poker face, or am I walking around with my heart on my sleeve?

I can’t decide which would be worse,

Unconsciously putting myself on display for all to see,

Or facing them, one-way glass to one-way glass,

Spreading and changing with my emotions.

I feel a tail, resting behind me.

I feel fur, coating my skin, and my hair feels unnatural in its absence.

Who are we, within our minds?

Can we change what we are, with merely a thought?

When is it too far?

...I see faces all around me, I see none. Do I know what my own face looks like?

If I imagine my self as something Other, will my sense of self conform to that thought, as it has no face to anchor myself to?

I feel stationary ears. A flat back, laying crooked as I recline over its bones. Skin that pulls taut as I stretch out my fingers.

When you pay closest attention to it, even the body you’ve known your whole life can feel alien. Can feel Other.

I can picture my eyes. My glasses. My hairstyle.

I cannot picture my face.

Where is my anchor to who I am? How fickle is it, this ‘identity’ that people claim to be unchanging, and yet it feels like I can trip it, reshape it, like the flick of a lever.

How much of my identity is real, and what else is just a Headcanon, a character derived from my own head? How many of my actions are simply willed that way in a bid not to be Out Of Character?

Who am I?

I know, and yet I don’t know the boxes I fit. All of them, perhaps. Or none of them. Either way, I’m unsure.

I feel what I look like, and I toy with the Other. The core of me stays the same, yet my Identity seems to be a whirling eddy of currents that coalesce around it, some that come and go like the tide, others that just bring shells and shipwrecks and interesting things- which seem fascinating at first, but then are gone, never to be seen again.

I am the same. I am Other. I am nothing, and everything.

The look in one’s eyes when they’re sick of yours.

Loyalty.

A strength or weakness, i’m never sure.

Loyalty.

Something made to be broken, in their eyes.

Loyalty.

...but perhaps, as the tides change, and the people move on,

Maybe,