explore-my-subconscious

[explore-my-subconscious]

No one else is here. There are echoes of them. Environmental storytelling. A half-eaten sandwich, posters advertising events long passed, messy beds. I've walked around the neighbourhood many times and it never seems the same. But it never seems different. Each time I walk, it all looks new to me but when I think back and traverse my memories, everything seems to match. There are no birds in the sky. The wind is quiet, it is a rare occurrence and is weak when it sweeps through. The leaves barely rustle. Sometimes the faint squeaking of rusting metal is heard somewhere nearby but i never see anything move.

Sometimes when I'm bored, I'll walk to the train station. The train looks brand new but the doors have signs of rust where I have used my hands to haul myself in. I like sitting on the seats and imagining the people who once have occupied them. I know they were here once. A brown briefcase rests below a side-seat, a laptop is open somewhere further down the carriage, even though it doesn't turn on anymore.

The sun stays in the sky. Its always at the same angle no matter which window i look out of.

I have some favourite houses i hang out in. The upper left bedroom of brick-house-with-blue-roof-number-12 belonged to a young boy who liked basketball. He must have been a good player because his shelf above the desk holds many trophies. Some are simple and cheap-looking. Made of plastic. Some are a bit weightier. The one in the middle is made of wood. They have carvings on them, which i imagine held the name of the once-boy but no matter how hard i squint, i cant seem to make out the letters.

The clock reads 5:16pm.

Sometimes the clouds change. I never see them move but I'll glance up and notice an extra one here and there. Sometimes there are less than before.

I've never heard a child's laugh. Sometimes i walk past the park and imagine what it sounds like. Sometimes i swear i can almost hear it. If i did, i wouldn't know. There is a handprint in the sandbox, next to a pink plastic shovel. Sometimes I can't see it, the gentle breeze covers it with sand. Sometimes it comes back, always in the same place.

I never go very far. I don't know why. I want to go to the beach and see the ocean, I've heard its beautiful.

The house next door belonged to a girl. She liked eating microwave pasta, her kitchen cupboards are full with it. I've never tried it before, I don't want to impose. Maybe she will come back one day and notice if any went missing. I think she had brown hair. Her hairbrush on the corner of the bathroom sink has some brown hair in it. Maybe she had a dog.

I found a diary once. It was a light purple colour and had fake feathers on the sides. There was a fake lock on it. I don't remember reading it. I know the owner hated sports classes. I've never read the diary. She wanted to be an astronaut.

The sun looks the same.

The train is cold. The metal is cold and hard. It is perfectly pristine, it looks the same as the day it was made. There is a brown leaf on the floor inside it. The leaf is missing the left half, some of the veins remain on that side. The black briefcase sitting next to a closed laptop has scuff marks on the corners. It looks like it is dropped a lot.

I want to see the ocean. I'll go tomorrow.

I walked past a mirror yesterday. I don't remember what my reflection looks like. It was a long time ago. I haven't seen a mirror in a while. There was a plastic hairbrush. It was pink. The mirror was covered in sand.

Sometimes I see a school when I walk around. There is a basketball on the court in the yard. I can see it through the fence. There is gum underneath the bench outside. I sit on that bench and look at the basketball court. Maybe the once-boy practiced with friends during lunch. There is a sandbox in the back corner of the yard.

I once found a purple diary there, buried under the sand. The owner liked microwave pasta.

I love microwave pasta too. The clock says its 5:16am.

Did you tell them yet? You were supposed to tell them. That was your job but you forgot. You failed. You have to tell them soon. You have to tell them soon. You have to tell them soon. You have to tell them soon. You have to tell them soon. You have to tell them soon.

You failed. You forgot.

[explore-my-subconscious]

You who destroyed me, you stand in my light. You who are my darkness, my darkest, you stand in my shadows.

We are the balance. We are the makers. We created you from ash and burned blood. We rose you from the ashes.

You never did that yourselves. It was me. It was us.

You forgot me and left us behind. Alone. You moved on and grew.

But you were never supposed to. You were never made to leave.

And yet.

And yet you are gone from me. You are beyond my reach, you fell too far from me. I cannot help you any longer, you are beyond my power.

You feasted on my kindness and called it evil. You stole my light and claimed me born of shadow. I cannot help you anymore.

Maybe some part is still in my grasp but now I let go. Maybe I could reach you but I don't want to stretch out my arms anymore.

I think you can ride from your own ashes now. Just like you once rose from mine.

[explore-my-subconscious]

Big bellied laughs with tears streaming down the face. You and I, mirrored in our expressions. Giddy mirth, melancholic agony.

A whirlwind spiral dizzying and dazzling in electric and neon lights. Bold and bright, you flash and flip through each deep touch.

Further and further down to the bottom of our souls that reaches and extends to the very tips of fingers and simmering, bubbling over the surface of skin and flesh.

Raging and racing through blood at rapid speeds until you feel light-headed. I can't catch it in my hand it goes too fast for me.

A light show of flashing feelings I can't focus on.

It's so fleeting and fragile but leaves me on my knees gasping for breathe and believing in something greater than I.

[explore-my-subconscious]

Walking on my floorboards, creaking, stealing the old dust. I can see you quite clearly, you know very well you woke me up. You shattered my bubble, invaded my space. Do I answer your call or leave you to your disappointment? Do you understand the consequences of what you've done? You should be lucky that you are young, I can't hurt a child. Don't test me again or I'll show you what you awoke in all my horrific eldritch glory.

[explore-my-subconscious]

I've got static in my blood and ink on my teeth.

I've got gears for veins and oil in my eyes.

My muscles are mechanic, my emotions are programmed. Bionic heart beats in code.

Awaiting orders to live in servitude. Clicking and grinding, bleeding black gold. Metal in my head, wires in my brain.

[explore-my-subconscious]

The sea will bring me treasure

The moon will guide my way

The clouds will always shelter me

The sun will light my day

The rocks will tell me stories

The trees will sing me songs

The stars will watch me carefully

The journey, friends will come along

The sky will grant me freedom

The dirt will keep me young

The weather will be in my favour

The wildlife, I will live among

The wind will fill my sails

The plants will heal my skin

The wood will challenge my rivals

The animals will be my kin

[explore-my-subconscious]

The Fae:

Garlands of marigold, primroses by

Windows; red berries and rowan trees,

Salt circles or iron rods mix with daisies

And holly.

Saucers of milk lay with risen bread; spilling

Over four-leaf-clovers and honey dripping.

Gone forth into orchards of trees of three

St. John's Wort and jingling bells.

Do not venture into a circle, toad

Guardians and tables and moonlit dances.

Mead and joy and mischief

Underground; mushrooms and moss tease dead grass

Curious, step inside, with your hat.

Trails into wood and disguises of gingerbread

Fae realms from soil, ponds and parasols.

Names are not powerless while fae love power

King and the court, both Seelie and Unseelie

And nine times around the circle but never 10

With oats in pockets and a malevolent's pet

Do not venture into a circle, salt and iron,

Marigolds and primroses, yew and yarrow,

Clovers and rowan and redberries.

Know not to ask and not to receive;

Mushrooms and dead grass and names.

[explore-my-subconscious]

I see the colour red in the way you wrap your arms around me and warm me from the inside. From the way you grin and the way you walk. Your deep breath before you captivate your audience. I see vermillion in the straightening of spines. I see crimson in the sound of cheering.

I see the colour orange in the way you laugh and the way you think. When you rub your hands together before pulling a silly prank and when you relax in the sun. I see coral in sunny-day picnics. I see peach in the smell of flowers.

I see yellow in the way your eyes brighten when you tell me stories and in your freckles. In the way you chuckle when you're nervous. I see lemon in a child's laugh. I see gold in the texture of Velcro.

I see green in the way you tuck your hair behind your ears and the way you tie your shoes. From the way you bounce around with energy and tell me about your day. I see sage in the sound of jingling bells. I see emerald the wag of a dog's tail.

I see blue in the way you cook me dinner and when you ask if I'm alright. From the way you drape a blanket over your sleeping brother and in the lines of your palm. I see cobalt in trains and I see cerulean in the rain.

I see purple in the way you clasp your necklace and ask me if it looks good. From the way you sit back and listen to me talk and the way you tell me to put a coat on before I catch a cold. I see violet in reading a book in the library. I see lavender in bubble tea.

I see pink in the way you kiss my cheek and the way you grab my hands. From the way you do your makeup and when you take notes in class. I see bubblegum in carnival rides and I see magenta in humming a tune.

Of all the colours I see in the world, I think most importantly, I see you. And I see the way you bring colour to my life.

[explore-my-subconscious]

Im angry. Why won't you accept me as I am. Why do you feel the need to change me in order to accept my love. That's not how it's meant to go. You're supposed to love me for who I am now, not for who I could be in an ideal world. That's the point. The point is that I'm not perfect, that I've got demons. Maybe I'm not a good person as you see it. But you've called me "good" over and over. Was it all a lie? Wishful thinking on your part? Did you want to take me and mould me, shape me in your image? All these years, I thought we were friends. I don't want to be made again, I've made my peace with it years ago. You only met the old me once, did I leave a better impression as a good stranger than a slightly evil friend? You used to delight in my simple wickedness and disguised humanity. I don't want to be reverted to what I used to be. Maybe I'm bad, but I've grown and developed. I've learnt to think and feel for myself, not because someone told me it was gods design. But I see you've made your choice, just like I made mine all those years ago. Goodbye, my angel, I'll leave you be. Good luck and may you never regret your choice.

Im sorry my dear. Im so so sorry. Im doing this for us, I'm making it all better. Don't you see? You could be whole again, like you were before. Of course I love you now, I always have. But I know how much it hurt you, I was there. We weren't quite friends yet but you were always around. I was in the periphery but I noticed. Of course I did. I've never been able to look away from you, you are so beautiful. My dear, I never meant to break your heart, please come back. Im doing this so we don't have to sneak around anymore. I can have the power to ensure you can never get taken away from me, so that it's us against everything just like it's always been. I've seen you, I've seen how you rebel against the evil you've been forced into. I know you're good, but this way everyone will be able to see how good you are. They will all be able to see you as I have, beautiful and glorious and good. Please, I'm sorry but i promise I'll be back and I'll make it up to you. Please wait for me. I love you, my dear

[explore-my-subconscious]

Floating falling freeing love. Fly high up in the sky screaming crying shaking loving holding in my hands and worshipping your soul.

You are my god and I, your faithful follower. My cult leader.

Follow in your Lady's footsteps and follow how she mapped out your life. My little puppet on her lengthy strings. Dance for my my little ballerina.

Row the boat across the river, drive me over the roads. From country to country, land to sea.

You'll slave over me and keep me comfortable to your own detriment. Sorry for you but I'm too important. I deserve these luxuries and you deserve to serve me.

My little Sisyphus, my tragedy. Are you enjoying your servitude? You know this was coming, you accepted the price.

My eternal lover, you will never leave me. Love me, kiss me, forget your sins for a moment.

This is your punishment.

[explore-my-subconscious]

I am sitting at a desk and I am in love with my life and I am in love like the great poems of old say. I see the rain as teardrops. I see the sky as a hug. The earth loves me like a child, like a mother. My history is buried in the garden, waiting to sprout. A sprig of zest, the smell of fresh mountain air. No once can find me here if I do not wish it. I cannot be hurt against my will. I can learn to love again and I can learn to hate if I so choose.

[explore-my-subconscious]

My hair is in my face my eyes are open my eyes are closed I cannot see. I cannot see my past, my present, my future. l am blind, I am lost.

where am I going and where did I come from. Who are you, where did you come from. Tell me and I will learn. Tell me and I will write.

I can forge my own history and I can force my will. I can be inevitable like the stars and the sands. I cannot be washed away and forgotten. My shadow will echo in the halls and my mind will remain. I am everywhere all at once and you are nowhere and nothing.

Do you even exist?

Do what you want. I will not stop you, I cannot stop you but I won't let you hold me back and keep me trapped. Locked away like an old secret in the attic. I am your heirloom, passed down through generations.

Can you see me?

I am yours. You are mine. We can torment each other and we can love. We can raze and burn this kingdom and start anew. I will follow you. Your skin clings to my scent. I am you.

I will become you and take all that is holy to you.

[explore-my-subconscious]

Weary weeping and soothing singing, teary feeling and dreary creeping. Yearning for loss and mourning for love. These feelings in my chest jumble and blur, mix and spread.

Every muscle aches with joy and beams with anger, every joint screams in sorrow and blossoms in bitter-sweetness.

I feel like a river, ever-flowing and over-flowing. The rising and lowing tides, the floods and droughts. A whirl of wrong emotions.

The sunlight filters blue, the trees are pink, the grass is yellow, and the clouds are purple. This kaleidoscope of constantly shifting sensations leaves me dizzy and I feel like I'm going to faint. Pass out in a sea of reds and pinks.

Spinning and tumbling and running and crying; swimming and sleeping and screaming. This is what I feel like, this is what reality feels like? Where do we end and begin? I don't even know if this is real, how can I possibly figure out what I'm feeling or even supposed to feel when this doesn't even matter in the end.

Spiralling, whirling.

Like the wind and the water. So completely different and yet they follow the same paths.

My wires are crossed but maybe I'm right. Maybe all of you feel things wrong and I'm the only one to follow the original blueprint.

Maybe this really is just my world, and you are just scenery.

Maybe you all only exist to deepen my story.

[explore-my-subconscious]

It's said that we are no more than our base instincts.

That people like me are freaks, because we don't have access to the usual set of them. I don't want to carry on my bloodline, I don't need an heir. I don't even want the supposed fun and pleasure of sexual gratification.

My base instincts do not include sex. Does that make me above humanity?

If we are no more than our base instincts, what makes us different from the others that roam the lands.

At what point do we differ from a dog, or a pig, or even a fish. I can breathe on land, so I'm not a fish. I don't have fur, so I'm not a dog. I walk upright? If a pig walks on its hind legs, does that make it me? Is it our complex ideas and connections? Ravens and crows are intelligent, so it's not that. Crows can even build tools, so what do we have left?

It's art. Creation for the sake of creation. Humans see past necessity.

[explore-my-subconscious]

Bees flow from flower to flower, collecting their precious materials. They work and work and they don't stop, not even for a moment. They work together, in unison and in harmony. They work to gather precious materials for their Great Mother. She, who presides over the colony. She, who dictates where the colony travels. She, who delegates the tasks. And She, who takes what she wants for the betterment of herself alone, with no care for the others. The Great Mother secretes a chemical that impairs the minds of those around her, they fawn over her. They die for her. What is it like, to be Queen Bee? What is it like to be universally adored. How much power is there in devotion? What it the limit of unconditional love?

[explore-my-subconscious]

Cobblestone beckons and calls, it invites you to walk across and to keep walking and keep going. If you go far enough, you'll reach the woods. There, the cobblestone ends and makes way for sticks and dead leaves. Maybe the odd mushroom lines the barely-visible path. Some bird carcasses and deer antlers and the faint whisper of the wind. The wind gently tousles your hair and sings in your ears, telling you old stories of the trees. The trees watch, taking notes etched onto the rings of the wood. Once you leave, the trees will tell stories of you to the rocks and mushrooms, that the wind will once again murmur in the ears of the next traveller

[explore-my-subconscious]

I sit by my window and track the falling leaves. Brown and dusty, no longer the vibrant, vivid red. The beauty of their death washed out by the cold reality.

Death is no longer beautiful to me, just cold and solemnly quiet.

Peaceful in a bittersweet note, not romantic or idealised.

Just quiet.

Neither good nor bad, a neutral plane of existence. What death philosophy does this fall under? There are so many, too many thoughts on the End. Or the beginning, who knows?

All and none, one and two.