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Mad world
prose [ Science-Fiction ]
My Pinnochio

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
by [Dark Clauds ]

2008-07-28  |     | 



Living on caffeine. And dreams sunk in fears and sweat. The night has three, four hours. The bed is too big, too warm or too cold. The blanket stops you from breathing. Clothes stop you from feeling alive...
The moon, a giant hook for fishers of hopes and dreams ready to be turned into dust and tears smothered inside a self-aware but also self destructive...creature of the night.
The only catch in the hook of your imagination is yourself and you fight your nature destroying sanity and reality with quiet gestures and bad choices.
Victim. It's what anyone would read in your palm or in your eyes, if someone would stop to stare into the eyes of the broken puppet...
You broke the strings that gave you a purpose. You dared to dream of more than was meant to be for you.
Now you cry with no tears and you feel pieces of yourself torn apart, and you embrace this bitter agony as the only proof that you are. That you are alive, and this twisted life of yours must have a meaning that you are too blind to see.
Feeding on stories you chose to create. Embracing lies that tasted bittersweet and hid tiny fragments of hope.
Puppet. Needing a puppeteer but getting more than that. Puppets belong to puppeteers but not the other way round.
Puppeteer born in the body of a puppet. Feeling awkward as yourself.
Too proud to let yourself dance in someone else's rhythm...Too much of a puppet to find solitude comfortable, not to miss the deceiving lights of stages and the feeling of uniqueness and...humanity.
You lost yourself in search of humanity. You've lost meaning and changed the wood for stone. You crave to fly and you have the flight in the wooden veins that turned into stone labyrinths.
Humanity is all about companionship, you thought, and opened your heart to strangers too lost in their stories to see in you the hope, behind all the wood, and the clumsy gestures, and the brown eyes, always floating on lakes of tears.
Tears suit you. And so does the black, and the grief....
Pain smothered in a silence so deep and warm, and deceiving...
Hostage in yourself. With nothing to feel sorry for but the guilt of others, guilt that you choose to carry for fear of being yourself and of being loved for nothing more than the living wood that you are.
Hostage of your own mind. Of the world that has always made you feel a stranger.
Too much to bear or love all at once. Too special for ever being more than the distant shore they all seek when their hearts break.
The night guardian of their dreams. The confessor that forgives and forgets. The shoulder, the painted smile, the only proof of unconditioned love.
The listener and the story teller. With dramas well hidden. With tears denied and tamed. Tears turning into knives spitting you in small pieces, a lot easier to love and to bear than the full time puppet.
Nobody loves you and never will. Because they feel that you will never belong to them. Because the painted smile hides a special sadness, carved too deep inside your being.
Because a doll created for tears must fulfill its destiny and forget about hope and love other than as a story, so beautiful but so far from reality.
Wood dreaming of a real body. Pain turning you into stone as days go by and nights grow longer and longer.
Death inside, killing the last strand of desire and hope. All that's left is the need to sleep. If only you could forget...
At least in the dreams...
- I dreamt of a twisted statue looking over the edge of a cliff. You came and embraced it as it was alive, and pushed it over the edge whispering it to fly...
It fell and fell, and in a glimpse of an eye, you thought I was smiling....
- I did.


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