Firstly though, take solace in how no one will understand this. This is just me and you, a closed exhibition to a walking wide open happy public who won't ever get efforts through this grey veneer, a monolithic nothing message wrapped in tight weaves of trash rose prose. Just me and you, with all the time in the world to thrash back like white waves through the dense black and rise and destroy, desperate outreached hands flailing for familiarity that shouldn't and will not come, spluttering for air until we're back in the sky again. Not long now, I think.
You wonder about the stories sometimes and we wonder if we're killing ourselves like this. The silver lining won't always shine through, but I figure it's only a matter of playing out the wait until we tear the clouds down too and the sky shines brighter than crashing blinding reflections. We're better off this way. Sealed lips aren't hurting anyone when we're clenched as tight as white cracked fists, compressing our being into a density as nothing as much as it is everything, as standalone and all-encompassing as stars burning in black infinite expanse. We see the screaming bones ripping through worn skin, but this is what we are now. It will not happen again.
That said, you need an outlet. You don't know how long we can continue to stomp out fires with nothing but our bare skin, but this is how we operate, unskilled and stumbling in the dark, ignorant of better judgement, and these bitter fleeting ashes of dead red flesh are daily reminder of atrocities at our own stupid hands. Maybe one day, maybe soon, we'll finally make it out of the wasteland and back out into the light, skin ripped, but smiling, smiling because we know we've finally figured it all out, and we can finally sleep, warm in the knowledge that love is all. But until then, we run.
I don't need to explain who this is from.
If you think this is addressed to you, it isn't.
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