To the Sun and All the Cities In Between

Another time. Another smile. Another trial. Another chance to inspire but deep down I know it will eventually backfire on me. As always. A brain wired so differently that everything is consumed by the raging, unforgiving fire. The burn-em-all kind, not the gentle kind where the heat embraces the cold limbs and the light dances and bounces off the walls. The mad queen has always been off her rocker, but hey, isn't this a new level of weird? Not that I expect you, or anyone to understand. Oh seriously, why would anyone care about what the fuck goes through my mind? But I'd like you to. To care, I mean. I'd love you to get familiar with the mad stories with tons of plot holes I can come up with within a minute, the defective wheel of crazy spinning in possibilities and probabilities, and all the drama. Drama can be good, it can be necessary, it can help to keep a soul alive. It's only terrible when the tiniest flicker of a flame turns into a raging wild fire.

Wait. Don't go. There is more. Tons more that I'd like to experience with you. The salty taste of the wind by the sea and the shrieking of seagulls mixed with the children's. The smoldering summer heat on our skin, tiny drops of perspiration on your neck and my hand in yours. The smell of the crisp autumn air as we speed through the empty roads to nowhere in particular, soft sounds of a guitar on the radio. And maybe a blanket fort in the winter, a safe haven, when the heating is broken and Doctor Who is on TV. Ah... those would be the days. Perfect instances of happiness. Alas, imagination doesn't always warrant reality - regardless of your level of longing. Sometimes they come true, these silly dreams, but nine out of ten times they remain what they are: distraction for the mad queen. Oh well, one can only hope, right? Till then... confusing people and being confused. What a lovely game to play. I've lost the ability to make sense a long time ago anyway.

What I'm trying to say is, distractions are always welcome if they are in the form of you. Come knock on my door - you might have to break it down because I rarely ever answer the door - and bring all your stories with you. We can work on them together and hopefully make one of our own. An epic fairy tale with broken princesses and lost princes, the monsters under every kid's bed, and miracles of a mundane nature. We might not be able to mend our disasters but we'll wrap them in shiny packaging paper with a bright red ribbon on top and pretend we are not just two crushed souls playing make-believe. I promise I'll make it worth your while; I'm very good at pretending. My ability to put up a million fronts would blow your goddamn socks off. I'm fucking amazing at it.

Sometimes I wonder what's all this pretending for. I mean, it never helps and it never solves anything so why do I go to such great lengths to keep my mask of okay on? It's all very pointless yet I do it anyway. Part of my brain thinks it's because I'm trying to keep the pain safe. Yeah, I know that doesn't really make sense at first but hear me out. What if I am too far gone to ever be a normal person again and this pain has become the only thing I can define myself with? What if I am too lost to ever find another word, another description? And what if all these late night ramblings are just attempts to store whatever's left of me? Or maybe they are just future reminders of the path that led me to wherever the fuck I'll eventually end up at. I'd say hopefully that'd be your heart but that's too fucking cheesy. It will probably be where I've always been but with a few changes to the scenery. Not getting my hopes up. Gotta keep them low so when I eventually reach the destination, it will be easier to accept if you're not there. To be content with your nonexistence. Perhaps I still pretend because the childish side of me believes it's the quickest way to that imaginary house full of hope with white paint and red doors and windows and with you in it. New age "Secret" bullshit. But hey, you gotta fake it till you make it right?

It's almost four in the morning and my stomach hurts. It's too cold for August, it's too cold to be alone. Birds are chirping outside my window, I have no idea how they find the energy at this ungodly hour. Shut the fuck up birdie, I am too scared to enjoy your serenade to the heavens. There are things I need to process but my brain refuses to. I'd like to brace myself against whatever's to come and be ready just in case the worst happens. Yet, all I can do right now is to run away. Run. Run. Run. It's easier to run. To where? Where does the truth catch up with one? Oooh, one. So fancy, so British. Look at me, I'm all fancy now. I wish you could be here to be fancy with me. Would you do it? Would you look into my eyes and tell me it's all going to be okay? Tell me that somehow and some day we're going to find that house, and all the detours we've taken on the way will be worth it. Worth the tears, the time and the trials of the heart. The mad queen will not be as mad before. The fire will burn out, the hazy smoke greeting the morning with the song of the morning birds, and we will be one with the sun and shine again. Maybe. Someday. Somehow. Deep breaths. One. Two. Until ten. Another day to get back up, try again and fall apart again. Oh well. Deep breaths.

This looks a lot like insanity.

But I am not afraid to let you be my sun.

Till we find each other, here is to us.

And to all the cities in between.

#CityOfTheSun