They say writing stuff down would help clear the brain.
But why does that not happen?
Why, whenever i write, does my brain intensify whatever i scribble down?
I guess it is the endless wish
for a blooming future,
a spark that sets flames
into the cold night,
the longing for a whisper
that says it'll be alright.
Or maybe i am not ready
to let my thoughts fly?
I just cry, these days.
Not because i am sad,
or lost,
or angry.
I just simply have no ideas left.
No plans.
No..
Thing.
there is but an empty grey mist
where an idea should be instead.
And then,
when for one minute,
i do let go; a sense of you:
it shows in the oddest of ways,
and i fall again.
And my mind spirals down
your rabbit hole.
I fall for ages,
years now,
but even if i embody Alice,
i feel like a Book,
that allows you to rip out my Pages, my best written Chapters.
And then,
the Fall stops.
Alice dies,
and the Book slowly regrows its Pages. For a Minute i can see clearly again. I let go of you.
And i cry,
because at the same time that Alice died,
my memories
- of living life before you -
died too,
and again i don't know what to do.
The Grey takes over.
And i wander around, lost.
Until i see a change in the Weather, and there it is,
the entrance to the Rabbit hole.
I fall hard, its true,
into my sense of you.
