Random Symphony of Words

The consequences of inaction were dire. A black wave of emptiness swept everything away. There was nothing left to hold on to. Everything was tainted; painted a horrible shade of confusion.  Cracks along the walls.  Wailing screams down the halls.  Undistinguished monotony; swirling non colours, abstract shapes.  Humdrum and boring never missing a beat.  And then, through the sinister sack that enveloped everything, she was there.  Luminous light and fresh air.  Futuristic hope that never settled on anything less than perfect. Without a clue about suffering, or maybe knowing too much.  Hidden secrets and unknown truths.  Tiny voices in large rooms with no windows.  Locked doors and blocked emails. It made sense in an MC Escher kind of way. Upside down stairs and twisted reflections.  Like Picasso's blue period.  Kandinsky at his most abstract.  Pollock at his peak of genius.  "Have you ever had the feeling, that the world's gone and left you behind.  Have you ever had the feeling, that you're that close to losing your mind? You look around each corner, hoping that she's there.  You try to play it cool, perhaps; pretend that you don't care.  But it doesn't do a bit of good. You have to seek till you find, or you'll never unwind...the drinks and the laughs on me..." That tune that buzzes around like flies around a corpse.  Decaying sense of nothing; off something other. Other than normal, other than the norm. But then, when she's around, things fall into place; they mesh and combine to form beautiful things. Nina Simone sings in the far off distance about her true love's hair colour.  She laughs at the lyrics of one of her songs. What have you overcome? Where did you come from? When the boredom sets in, things cease to make sense.  Ramblings of a madman litter the screen and there's no escape.  There's no way to get out, no way up and no salvation.  The rising sun house in New Orleans.  A fable? Or truth? A mystical ever after that quenches spiritual thirst.  A cataclysmic event to wipe out all other events.  "Birds flying high you know how I feel. Sun in the sky, you know how I feel. Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel. It's a new dawn, it's a day, it's a new life for me. And I'm feeling good."  A vampire that loves the sunlight. The destructive nature of nature.  The unsightly site that remains unseen.  Doors that crash open and bring forth hideous nightmares to the forefront of consciousness.  The flying machine that has yet to be invented. Winged creatures that man envies. Women sit and knit. Random thoughts of meticulous events that are planned to a T.  Dot all the I's and then wash and lather.  A cheery tun about divorce.  Liquid honey voice that drips into the head.  "One husband, one wife. What do you get? Two people sentenced for life..."  A natural response to crisis.  The question that so fluently rolls off the tongue.  No one would reveal their secret.  The thought of her makes my heart bleed smiles.  The thought of her makes me bleed. Green. Red. Christmas coloured food; for the brain. The impossible dream of obtaining her compassion.  The ineptitude of life at achieving a smile. Roaming the forever dim streets, always looking for unattainable questions, convoluted answers.  Two different coloured sleeves on the same shirt.  A row of coffee cups, all disposable as their drinkers.  Celebrating birthday after birthday in the glum emptiness of a single room.  Walls yellow from smoke, no room to move or breathe.  Crammed into a cage, a room, a home; surrounded by villains with diseases.  Too many rules and not enough freedoms.  Stealing and demanding; screaming and pleading.  Towel folding like a ritual that should remain undisturbed. Everything is contagious.  The walls and buttons are infectious.  There is no cure.  The end  marks the beginning and there is renewed hope and interest in everything.  Reversed and flipped; upside down and inside out.  Hunger pains and missing fingers from drugs.  There is a sob story behind every door.  As asshole on every floor.  One bad apple that ruins it for the rest of the bunch.  No teeth to eat; no food to bite down on. Beats and lyrics, movies and commercials; brainwashing the masses.  What a cliche.  I have a semi functioning brain.  Uneaten by Zombies. Only partially eaten... not yet digested.  "You give love a bad name." They always talk.  About the most random things. Jumping from one topic to the next with the ease and dexterity of a moth.  Why do the freaks come out at night? Are they afraid to show their true colours? Do they feel safe in the dark?  Do they feel free? The hissing of the radio; like dying whispers. There is an enemy on the other side. My goals is to reach 100. I'm at 94 now.  Will the end come soon? What will it look like? A howling of demons that swoop through the streets, collecting the souls of the lost? They all live here. I live here. In an abandoned room. Devoid of anything human. I hear secrets. I lock them inside my semi functioning brain.  And then I forget.  Open letter to the love of my life. You can do no wrong. I would do anything for you. "How wonderful life is, now you're in the world." Are you tired? From running through my brain forever? My secretly public crush.  the guitar twang of a Southern love song lulls and relaxes. A New Yorker sings it. Someone from Hollywood pretends.  Thirty thousand keys for 200 doors.  Each one with a deadly secret locked behind it. "I'll take door number 14, Alex!"  Enthusiasm.  Hooded strangers come out of the dark and attack, break body, bone and spirit. Not thinking of the damage they leave behind.  "Honey, I'm home." A trail of blood. Swollen eye, cut lip. Colours that don't appear on the Rainbow.  But somewhere, over the rainbow, is a land that I dreamed of, once, in a lullaby.  Grey. Impending rain.  The payphone assumes connection and disables a contact.  Enables dialogue.  There is a buzzing underneath the dial tone.  Who else is listening? And for what reason?  Paranoid bliss. Basketballs and pianos.  The perfect fusion of sport and art. Spart. Ort. Inventing new words; frate: friend date. The many faces of Elton John. And Madonna. The many versions of Michael Jackson. Who are you really? Human looking masks that hide hideous truths.  What is my truth? What is yours? Someone is playing classical music on the piano in the Chapel.  It's soothing.  There is elegance to the way they're playing.  Someone got lost in the cords; was eaten by the melody.