Turnings that make Circles.

I like to sit and observe little things about you. I like to listen to what you have to say. About everyone and everything. I heard you last night so vividly. About your friends and the ones you love a little more. I sat there wishing, I could help you out. Help you with everything. I wish there was little something special about me. I miss you, mother. It's a little too quiet for my liking. My heart is sinking, I do not want to go back. This month that was supposed to be an escape, wasn't really one. Now I am just sitting here, missing you. My heart is settling at the bottom of the ocean, deep into the sea bed. Will someone please help it survive? Writer's block. This is as bad as it gets.

I have absolutely nothing to say. Past two days, I've never felt so empty. So powerless, so vulnerable. It sinks so low that it completely drowns. It's like hitting the concrete floor, after ages of falling; like a perfect heroine high and the predictable low, that devastates and abandons you. I miss my mother. I miss being somewhere I belong. Do I belong anywhere at all? Heavy in my heart. Heavy in your arms.

It is around the summer time when people begin to either get too distanced, like the space between the stars; or they become so close that they almost begin to be the same, no identity of their own. So I told you because there was a time you understood the intensity of the situation and knew how hard I was going to get struck by the bulldozer. Now I keeping striking into walls and concrete, which give me bruises and skinned knees. You and I were different, so very different. Belonging to unique worlds, far apart like Mercury from Neptune. Then we got so intimate and close that the only separation between you and me was that sheet of air, that always remains. Who knew this air, that unknowingly existed, could expand and blow us further away. There is that kindness of yours that I miss. The way you would find sorrow in my soul and make it disappear, by only accepting it as yours. There is something about that time, that seduces me into reliving the bygones. Let bygones be bygones? The ra...

It's becomes a funny thought, after a while, when it becomes recurring that you are shooting yourself. Your body and soul feel so vacant, that you keep imaging a black .45 mm gun on the right temporal bone. Barely pushing the trigger, till it is actually pulled and your brain is smeared with blood, right next to your lifeless body. It becomes funny, when you imagine it right before sleeping and the first thought to come into your head when you wake up. It's weird when you take two sleeping pills, hoping to be out for the night, but instead you are up at six am. It's a sad existence when you keep watching yourself shoot, with a crimson splattered brain or keep wanting to sleep because you don't have the urge to do anything else. I would cry for some help, but I keep believing I am fine on my own; only it makes me feel worse. Am I stronger than that? Why must I keep believing that shooting myself is an easier way out of these things..