Matchbox Maladies

Catastrophic uncertainty of the self.

Category: Charm

patterns beyond sleep

by Sine Qua Non

**somewhere, someone thinks the same thoughts. you will know it is me.

 

i have stopped waiting for sunrise. but morning after morning, it creeps in. it makes its way through the thicket of rainfall, slithering through disappearing stars, spilling onto my bedroom floor. it enters my room, finds a spot at the crevice between the wall and where my body crumbles. it has no voice but it speaks the truth: morning has come and i am still waiting. in twenty-four hours it will happen again. and again. and again. but maybe on a different morning the pillow will be somewhere else, the wall would look back sooner, my body will not be on the bed. not this bed, maybe another. morning is certain to arrive everyday. to subject one’s self to wait is borne out of an illusion that there is something special about the arrival. maybe because the return is as certain as the departure. this is how we know things should be. as children, we were taught that morning light comes to take the place of a dark night. growing up, they tell us that the night is darkest before the dawn. some of us were convinced the moon and the stars are just as, if not even more, beautiful. our lives revolve around the movement of nights and days. we are bound by the habit of the universe. we are made to believe that this is how things should be. what celestial bodies do not shed light on is this: how are we able to feel the absence of something that is always there anyway?

sometimes an  arrival does not signify the return from a departure. sunrise will come again tomorrow.

Imminent Apparence

by Sine Qua Non

Apparently some things do not seem apparent enough. I do not need your words, that’s what the song kept repeating and I am led to believe that it is true. Your answers have become bland. I am no longer compelled to seek you. What I seek to understand is why you still make me feel so. I think its pointless to even ask if you miss me yourself. You say you do. But again, it’s not apparent. The bite-sized comforts shrink to a size i can no longer feel. Nothing is real.

We’ve lost our sunsets to the gray mornings ruled by thick clouds and light drizzles. In my waking hours you are just a name on a list. I thought I could still hear you laugh in my memories. No longer, what remains are letters typed in succession supposedly making sense  in a mailbox hidden somewhere in this screen. There is no need to stay awake. The very reason why it’s become difficult to sleep.

We used to be able to transcend distance and time. Or believed we could. We felt we did. We knew we did. There was something there. How did we lose it again? How could we have thought we never would?

We dared, didn’t we? Shared parts of ourselves we shouldn’t have. Risked it anyway. For fleeting pleasures we had to consciously create an escape plan for. What we have left is a maze we put up ourselves, in the hopes of leading us away from each other. Here, I am making turn after turn after turn. I’ve covered some distance, yes, but I keep leaving traces of myself behind. Which you pick up gladly, although, maybe, not consciously to find your way towards me. But you know where to find me anyway. You know your way.

I think, now, you’re the one who’s actually stuck. You know you have to move away, you make it seem that you are. Then why do you keep looking back?