Wonderland-Is-Broken

And now I close my eyes to sleep, The darkness closes in. A tender secret tis' to keep, That dreamlike spiders spin. But now my eyes are wide you see, The dark I shall forsake. But Only am I truly free, Before my eyes do wake.

The wounds are little trinkets that I cannot leave behind. They stare so vivid back at me. They play games with my mind. And so I cut the cloth and bind, I shut my eyes so tight. I rest my head and pray that they, Dont come for me tonight.

I long so terribly to venture out of this glass. I press my hands to its cool surface, I stare out at the people as they stare in at me. But they think they see themselves in me. They stare right through, To the very edge of this world, where it ends In star lit darkness and purple sand. And still they do not see.

Birds glide gracefully over the clear open sky. Reflected in the bowl of a dilated pupil, empty, cold, carefree. Gazing upward into everything and nothing. Possessing everything and nothing. The happiest man in the world. Peace is not simply silence. It is the lack of silence itself.

I wish so much that I could hold this feeling. Like a tear frozen in a block of ice. Captured in glass. Preserved forever. I wish that you could see it right now. And yet I have no means to show you. Except this. So look. And understand. That this isnt existing, this is living.

Survive this. Survive it for me. I know, how easy it would be. I know, that you are tired. But this is not that time. This is not that day. Because soon enough, You'll learn to breath again. You'll learn to feel again. You'll walk outside and realise, That you just saw the sky for the first time in your life.

My dreamscape is made of a thousand butterflies. Vivid winged, they change they mould to the desert in my mind. A desert made of warm purple sand. The canvas for dreams. I kick that sand and it flies high, then sinks back to its dune as if in water. Heavy as stone. The sun smoulders red deep orange on the horizon. It is both dawn and dusk. It is neither day nor night. It is a perpetual twilight of the fever dream, between my waking and sleeping. Like a niche in the flow of time. The thirteenth hour. This is the climate my dreams. This is the desert of possibilty

Sometimes I go there, When there is nowhere else to go. When I need somewhere to hide. There is no fear there. I stretch my hand forth into the darkness and find only walls. Wallpaper peeling. I can see by the dim light that my drawings cover them. Winding up and down. Half hidden in the smothering darkness. They burn, warm and waiting beneath my fingertips. They know. And so I sit, with my back against that wall. And I slip out of time, out of sight, out of the light.

Stretch out your arms. There are no edges to the sky. Pure echo. Breath in the oxygen. Walk on the air. Drift downward through this cool nothingness. The sun sparkles. Feel the freedom of being so far from everything.

Would it be too cliche to say that this is the Beginning of the end? No. But it would be false. A lie. Because the end began a long time ago. It began at the beginning. Its just that in recent years Things Have Sped up a little. We moved it along nicely. Lets make a list, shall we? Well lets start with the obvious Atom bombs. Why do it the hard way? When you can wipe out whole countries? Thousands and thousands and thousands of lives. Snuffed. Gone. Forgotten. Probably because the only people who would remember you were standing Right next to you. At the time. When it happened. Can you even imagine?