ISN'T IT PAINFUL TO LIE TO YOURSELF?, she thought, and trembled. Shook. It was a bit too early and too late at the same time and the sun was rising. Despite of that, hope wasn't. The food was untouched and smelled sick. Sickening. Scraping back and forth. As a solution to the unsolved riddles, it's okay to close your eyes and act completely the opposite and quite irrational. Neat solutions, pictures on glossy paper and that was it. No words or explanations. But perhaps there's no need for more of them, when there are already too many. Attempts, that is. Painful attempts and sore areas. Words not thought through. Guesses to understand the actions and for what? When you don't understand it yourself, it must be a lie? The sun fills the rim, over the mountainside and doesn't quite reach the skies, only enough sun for her, to thaw her out again. From cold nights without introspection at all, only the usual chaos. She needs shelves. An archive of alphabetical order. Practical. Much of the thoughts revolve around the other. Her. The Cat. The face that etched itself firmly in mind from day one and that will not let go. And fascinating words that burn holes in reasoning and let her own mouth linger in silence. Choked words. Dead, but alive. Inside her, but not out in the world with reality. She thinks about traveling there. But she is scared of course. Perhaps she would never have been able to leave. Or maybe she was exaggerating. Maybe this is a dream she refuses to let go of. Dream thoughts, dreams actions, dream words suitable for a dream girl, but is it too much energy for nothing. Poor investment, let's say. She realized recently that there's not enough time there. Imagine that there is actually no time at all, the Cat was the one who said there was, but was that perhaps her only lie? Constantly tried to convince of that time was there, that it would always be there, but she was wrong, wasn't she? There is no time, because time only creates more questions and additional wounds. More demands from oneself. Maybe the Cat does not demand anything, but doesn't she know that she takes tears and steals space from your heart? She steals time too. Sly cat, tells you what you have to make you imagine that you have it, then takes it away. Steals what you do not have. Is it possible? It is, she concludes, and lights a cigarette. Feels the need to calm her shaky hands. Poison herself, or remove the stench from the food. She is certainly empty inside, but not hungry. Never. She could have traveled there. The cigarette reminds her of Paris. She could have traveled there too. Taken the Cat with her and smoked cigarettes barefoot at a small cafe on the Champs Elysee. Dressed in white, skin tanned. With laughter in their eyes and time. Maybe even sunshine covering the world and warm summer rain on the horizon. The cigarette did not help the shaking. Particularly. She directed her eyes towards the window and noticed that it had become later or earlier. Her mouth was dry, but if she got up she might fall over. Balance? Zero. Failure. Not just the legs. And if she pierced herself, would it make any difference?
Maybe you don't see me.
The same way no one really ever does. Or maybe you do.
The balance between the opposites is what makes relations complicated, like we want everyone to see, but then again if they did, then what? If they did, would they?
If you did, you'd be a saint. It's not as if I try to hide, not at all.
I just don't see how.
Repetition is the only thing I know.