A string of broken words

It's been a year since those damn jungle fowls bred behind my house have crowd, bitched or moaned. I thought it was going to be a good year. It should have been, it started out so nice what with the house and all.

I thought i'd grown up. Could I have been any more wrong. We sacrifice the people closest to us for our own desires, usually gaining a reprieve from the incessant habits we've adopted over the years.

The places we've been to and the people we've met. They seemed like, no, they felt like a permanent fixture in the delicately woven tapestries of our every days.

I still can't sleep on my bed. Whenever I try to I always wake up in a cold sweat. I never really mean to, how am I supposed to control my subconscious.

Every night it's the same dream, a stone staircase winding down from god-knows-where and i'm walking down it. The intricately carved masks, Fijian, Japanese or African in nature line the cold, grey walls mocking me with each step. They sing to me, they bid me take my place among them on the walls, proof of my humiliation.

A few words are uttered between the masks and they sneer at me. Blasphemer they cry, usurper they screech. I never truly knew what they whispered, just that it was ill and uncomfortable. I always assumed so for in my dreams i'm always the villain. Never truly am I the protagonist in my own mind.

I've made peace with others but not myself. On nights when the storms rage outside my window as the eastern winds and northern rains batter the panes, I can still hear the grief inside me. They echo like lost souls within an empty cavern. The internal turmoil I suffer through, constantly engaging with each other.

Most of the time i'm lost within my own thoughts not really knowing how to escape my own mind. The outside world is like a mirage. The more I clamber for it, the further it gets and as soon as I stretch my hand out to reach it, it dissipates.

I often find myself waking up at night with tears streaming down my face. Not knowing the source or reason, yet I embrace it. I'm lonely, yes, but I've found comfort.

She doesn't know it and i'm hard pressed to tell her. It's a scary thing to have to handle. You always thought you were a stone. A rock. A hard place. Immortal and omnipotent. But at the end of the day, you're still human. It's not god that reminds you. It's not the pain of the blade burying itself into your skin that reminds you how human and fragile that vessel made of blood and tissue is. It's the emotions that burn you and scream in your heart of hearts that remind you just how small and insignificant you are. How useless you've become.

I feel useless. I feel spent. Like a towel that's been wrung far too many times.

I stare at her through this sheet of plastic. The only thing keeping us sane and committed. Though I have no place in it. She can say all that needs to be said, but it doesn't change the fact that I feel like a nuisance. I have no place in her life. Neither does any other man.

Blood will always be thicker than water.

Today's post was brought to you by the word turmoil and the color grey. The word turmoil for the ever existing emotions I have. They speak to me as if they were my brothers. The color grey for the skies and the clouds that follow me constantly. A silent reminder of how the days will never seem to become bright again.