This has an edge It ambles around, dragging its tails The residue of an unpleasant dream It is mine now, the time Thickened and stewed into a shadow. Or grilled on top of a grin Laden with metaphores Stomped, sealed, suffocated. There is a rift in my open throat A slash on my paper Something is written now Do you see? Black gestures eeling Around the spine. Coiled into a spring I sleep into the womb Trembling for tomorrow.

You are opening that door again
I hold your hands back. they are cold -
You swing your head. You are not happy,
You want to go in -
and let your wings flutter into that violent, terrifying wind,
What do I do with you? I know beyond that door
The sky screams. And the earth vomits rage -
Your tiny, beautiful wings are clapsed firm now, and
Your face, your heavenly face, is smeared
with blood. You are sad now. I am sorry,
but i have to stop you, over and over again
And you will throw tantrums. You will cry. But I will hold you
in my arms. Your anger is sharp and vile, like an old blade.
It eats away my flesh in hungry bites. I tremble. Our blood
mixes and mingle together. Why do they hurt us? You scream,
Why do they hurt us like that? I hold you tight.
"Its not them" I whisper, "It is us. Its always been us -
your small body smells of oil and dust. You quiet down. Then
you run around, laughing, yelling. I know -
It is time. To close that door forever.
We were never meant to live forever
Anyway.

Insanity. Full - blown. What is wrong with me ? Cannot breathe - a throbbing on my toes. Eyes flutter for shelter. Inside. Look inside, stranger. Look inside. The answer in there. Right there.

At last, I have loved the difficult.

Tagore.

As long as I feel the need to fill out my loneliness with somebody else, there will be something terribly wrong with me. I must be capable to be happy by being myself. There are three nature of relationships that I experience in the universe; the one between I and the nature, I and other humans, and finally, the most important, I and my own self. It is the last one that defines me, and manifests me into my own truth. There is no God, no perfect partner, or no material thing that can bring me happiness.

Looking inside me, myself. Touch my own insanity, my loneliness, my despair, my passion, my place in the Universe. They are my friend. My true friend. Nothing else exist outside them. Nothing ever will.

Elephant on my chest. Time is slower, I feel like swimming into thick syrup. Black anchor tied to my feet. I am drowning. Inside me, something is throbbing, trembling.

What is it? I ask in the mirror.

This is you, replies an old man.

For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was

found,

His who had given me life - O father ! O God ! was it

well? -

mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted

into the ground:

There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell.

- Tennyson.

Pain, terrible pain in the head. Invisible, dragging. Tiny, miniscule muscles and tendons stretching, torturing themselves. I need to live. Or leave?

The outsiders are gathering.

The outsiders are gathering....