Existance

I immerge myself in a reality that never was and never will be, a reality that merely presides in the dark corners of my mind. There, between shadows and cobwebs, do I glimpse small glints of what once was, bits of glitter that never quite washed off, that insist on staying, weeks after diligent every-day scrubbing in the shower. How can a memory be erased? How can something that was surely important - it can't have been the opposite, or I would not feel the urgent necessity to seek it - disappear forever? And how can such a thing leave nothing but fine dust impossible to decipher? I run away. The earth is the sky and the sky is the molten lava in the centre of the earth which in turn is the burning fire of each wave of sound that has been spreading since the Big Bang. Om. The eternal sound of the universe. I look deep into the eyes of my friends, see them glance away haunted. If only the wouldn't be frightened away, if only they would look back into mine. In them, I see specks of gold, explosions of fine black metals, melted hues that mix, mottled stains almost invisible. Pupils of infinity, hiding the truth and the fake. As I run, I fall, and what I almost understood slips away, away from me, until I have to start the whole process again. I know I am missing something, I know it. But if the others don't hold my gaze back, does that mean they are missing it too? Or perhaps they are afraid I will steal their answer? I see a memory of a child's laughter, a chilling streak of fury, a stabbing cloud of pain. What do they see in mine? Blue, green, torquoise, amber, grey, gold, teal, black, aquamarine, pastel, azure. A breathing pupil, the only thing that keeps moving when time is stopped. Or perhaps it is the iris that breathes? I look into a mirror, see nothing. Where is my reflection? It has been stolen, they are mocking me. That creature there is not me, no, it isn't. She is not me, and I am not her, because I know what I look like and that is not me. Her body is small, all small. Slight swells of breasts, tight waist, miniature hips, light bump of a bottom. Her hair is short, up to her shoulders, auburn, the same colour that her eyes sometimes betray, when they are not giving other lies, lies of browns and greens and yellows. They are big eyes, marked lines beneath them, shadows she can't or won't hide under make up present too. Her nose is non descript, her mouth dry, lips pale. She looks dishevelled, tries hard to create enough of an illusion for the others. A bit of chapstick, a bit of lipgloss. Big smile, many teeth showing. She is radiating. That thing pretending to radiate is not me. I shut away this image, breathe hard as I keep on escaping. Finally I reach my green hill, where I am: from the inside and out. There, I see myself, as minuscule and petite as I truly should be. I am as big as a nine year old child, figure slight, no adult curves to mar the picture. My hair is long and brown and wild and curly, a lion's mane to reach my hips. My eyes are me, and there are no whys without an answer. I am bare, a long-sleeved white cotton shift reaching beneath my knees all I need. My sword is with me, in hand, and I am safe, no matter I can't lift it. Everything is perfect, but why am I alone? The ghosts fly around me in a vortex, the eye of the storm myself. They spin faster and faster until they are like thick mist, one a part of the other, and their voices surmount onto an incomprehensible scream that is part wail part keen. I cover my ears but it is not enough, no, I had better crumple onto my knees, and then shove my head betwixt them, compress into a ball of a person. But I can still hear them. And I decide to try and make them hear me instead, but my voice gets confused with their own, and I realise that I am not a singular entity, rather, an insignificant part of something greater with no name.