Too late

[lietuveens]

Sometimes I wish wasps stopped banging against my windows this autumn. It is like the universe sends its messengers to me foretelling the changes that might come. Or are they ominous minions of evil? They leave their marks on the glass, and I am unable to clean them away. Just as I am unable to purify my life from the filth that has gathered in the corners and can never be scrubbed out of them unless you take a brush and paint them over with another rainbow layer. Oh but it's still there. The filth. The hurt that has turned into constant sorrow. It tricks me into believing it has faded away, and then preys me and attacks me when I am weak. And I am helpless in my infantile struggle to get back on my feet, and I am ridiculous in my childish desire to wrap my arms around you.

Or the changes might never come, after all. I am stuck in this circle of life, they call it routine. But my mind is away, always. It is with you, love. In all the possible dimensions.

What is real? Is it where I feel hungry? Is it where I sweat and shit and bleed tears because they have stopped flowing through my eyes years ago? Is it where I lay my head down in hope to find you in the vortex of my dreams? It's ages, love. Ages I have spent in the battle for my sanity - but I don't need it. I need you. Or I need to get my heart back. But what am I going to do with it - empty and shattered?