The Gravity of a Loop.

My head is spinning.

It seems that lately it always is. Maybe that's why I've been so urged to write in these past few days. It is definitely easier to write when you're wrung with a headache. So many thoughts bursting pressure at the walls of my skull, demanding to be released - to explode in a frenzy of tantrums and tears; of begs and confessions.

My head is still spinning.

I hear the noises of my mind ringing so violently, like high pitched bells, my eardrums can no longer heed the pain of it anymore. I try almost desperately to shut my eyes to imagine myself in a safer place, but only God knows that there is no place safer than out here, because inside here it's worse.

When my eyelids are closed, and my lashes curtain my sight, I see things further than that when I am wide awake. I feel my pupils shrink to the size of freckles, I feel the veins creep through my sockets, so swollen, and so filled with agony that it paints the imagery of things so demonic.

My mind is no safe zone, no sanctuary, no place for sanctity or security, but instead a place without walls; without grass, or trees; without pillars, or a roof over its head; not a place to call a home - there is no water to quench the thirst that nearly kills me, and no food to fill this belly that starves.

It is not a battlefield - or if it were, than it was one that had long lost its soldiers to the blood of arrows and catapults - for this is a barren land, with air that cannot fill the lungs, and a scent that cannot leave my limbs.

Mind you, there are no monsters here. No shadows, or claws, or shattering teeth, which in fact, I would appreciate the company of.

Here, there is only me.

Only a sky in the tint of amber, the floor-bed made of blistering stones, the eerie sound of silence, and the warmth of my own breath.

I am not caged, not shackled, but here am free to move to no where: to get lost in the infinity of the place that does not exist, to repeat my steps for years that will never pass, and to remember things I can only keep on seeing. Though even so, I feel like a prisoner.

I am held captive in the dreariness of nothing, where my warden is my own self.

I have the key to leave. I have the key to let go of all of this, at simply any moment.

But alas I am a fool, and I believe I often misplace it. I leave it in the pockets of stranger, in a friend's locked drawer, under my bedroom pillow, or more than naught, in my lover's eyes.

I leave my key in places I assure I'd come back to: in places I thought I could almost call mine, but forget so easily, that I am too fickle to ever own anything.

..

There is no ending to the muse of my writings. I can always go on with the tragedy of my life, with words that fill the spaces of endeavors so perfectly, but I simply cannot find the point of where it will end - because, will it ever?

Most probably not. Most probably I have so long lived in my mind, that my reality is coming close to collision. That now I am free to walk both lands, unbarred, and unlimited, but only endlessly to the goals of no where.

Allow me to trail off this post unfinished now, and leave my being to wander the thoughts that I can barely word in paragraphs. Allow me, adieu.