delta

the dissapated scent of a million people who have streamed past you, each awash in their own memories and caught up in carrying on in the moment. smoke gets in my hair and i recall being burnt by the lit end of a cigarette, the other end of which looks dipped in cheap pink lip rouge. my hair airs the tired smell of smoke and odour and the scent of a million other people. i lie prostrate on the couch, wondering why my head does not spin as much as before. perhaps it is time for another vodka, indeed. mix one with coke and down the combination. add the lethal combination of a pill or two, and send yourself to high heaven.

of pierces and art, of tiny red dots and bleeding lips.

the emptiness that seems reflected on the walls. the shadows empty existences of inanimate objects. and then perhaps your head stands to spin, the vodka burning a thin thread of acidity down your throat. you feel it moving swiftly through your gullet and then identify where the alcohol has gone to by a burning sensation in your stomach.

in a nutshell, it is close to the end. the first end if not the second ending and it already feels like it. to hang on for the moment, uncertainty shrouded in the desire to cling on just for a little more. ahh.

i care little, because i've found out the divergence between caring and how things divert from going the way you think they should, just because you cared. subject to realism, perhaps.
and i am nearing the end of my teether. another hiatus again, perhaps?
of going to a place where i become faceless and nameless.

you were there that day when i left. you were in the hall, togged as you were, all the time. perhaps you were running, perhaps you stopped for a moment. were you there when i felt the helpless urge to speak? did you look up into the sky and think of different people, different worlds? worlds apart, as we are, would you ever know the significance of any item to me?

would you have known that tiny contraption placed upon a pedestal at my desk, that i wanted to hurl it down 30 storeys below and then watch it lying in bits upon the concrete? but what good would that have been? i recognise flashes of vengence now as crumply bits of salvaging your own self-worth. as if it were of any good.you drift now, with the practiced air of nonchalance, mastered through years of being too uptight about everything else. nothing else seems to matter, you seem to say.

i'd smile and look at you one day on, perhaps then you'd be the person i'd hoped you'd be.