clone42

Today I arose to disaster.

I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s a complete mess.
A lot of you know a little of my cheerful adoration for disaster.
Some of you reading this know a little about the mess I’m talking about. Some think you do, and some couldn’t care less.

They say that having a fantail (or Piwakawaka,) come into your home is a sign of things coming together.
Sometimes it signifies death, sometimes birth.
When I got up, I had two fantails fighting in my dining room this morning.

I suffered death on this day, a long long time ago.
This is a day of memorial for a lot of people close to me.
Closer to the surface, today is a beautiful day.
Today I know where I am and where I want to be.
The clouds have opened, and I’m going to go out and get a tan.

They say that the ultimate fertiliser for the forest is fire.
Burn it to the ground, and it comes back twice as strong – it just takes a while.

I feel good about being alive today and I will play in the ashes of all I have burnt.
I want to get as filthy as I can, so I can wash the gray scum from my body.

My eyes feel like I’ve been crying for hours on end, bawling into my chest – but I haven’t.
It’s just the phantom pain of a lost limb.
I feel an emotional appendage, severed from my body, though still very much attached in my mind.

Oh boy, is it itchy.
I think this itch is going to be my saviour today, and I will roll it around in my mouth and savour every second.
That ethereal itch is going to be the fire-blanket I’ll throw over the ache of loss.

Ironic, isn’t it?

Loss is a concept.
It is not tangible.
It is not real.
Nothing is ever lost, it just changes shape.
The things we thought we had, once lost, become a tangible lack.
Sometimes they won’t just fuck off and set fire to themselves like we wish.

I set fire to someone today.
Not ‘today’, per-say – it was another day with a similar bunch of numbers for a name.

Today I will paint myself with their ashes so as to hide the true colour of my gaunt face, reminding me of the fire I tried in vain to light last night.

Ok, so – time to cosy up next to a raging brushfire of pain and loss, and scratch the itch of a phantom limb.
The smoke’s going to get in my eyes, and tears are going to well up.

The tears won’t fall.

They’ll become part of the caked up detritus that hides my feeling of deep lacking

Sweet as.