A second chance at sanity

"rain"

~suspicere(in) caelum—to raise the eyes to heaven; to look up to the sky.~
Escape again -  c152, .diedlonely

Bluewashed. Anima was a city that was adorned by a sheet of cyan. Marred by crime, disease and poverty. Yet some how salvaged by love and drudgery.

Diseased. Dead. On its last two legs.

Anima was a city that had been brought to it's knees. Forced to raise up it's eyes and look at the sky. To look up to heaven.

It was a place where souls roamed the earth in a state of eternal solidarity.

Though this wasn't true, for  two souls. And two souls only.

And with each drop of rain they felt that their destinies were being completed. When she thought of him all she could think of where all the destinies she was yet to complete. When she thought of him she thought of rain, the only thing that remains useful when it falls.

Waterworks, it was all waterworks. The sky wasn't the only thing that was crying . Her heart was crying too. Crying because today was her last day of loving him. Because their love, or her love rather (she was certain she was the only one in possession of the emotion) had become self-destructive. Like the sky. The concave disk of navy splattered with white.

She was falling apart and the only way to salvage whatever fragments of her soul remained unscathed was by letting go of all the burdens of an unrequited love. For her, this meant loving one last time. For one last day.

She searched her mind to describe how she felt but found nothing. Nothing could describe this pang in her chest and throat. But she knew she had to let him go.

The light has done nothing for her. Something so abundant yet miniscule had failed to grow the little poppies that have inhabited the tiny nook in her heart that still yearned to love boundlessly. As though death doesn't exist.

Unfortunately for her, death had permeated every aspect of her life. And she lost more and more of herself every day. She felt as  though she was  made of concrete and each day she was being chipped at, worn away.

She had no will to live, no appetite for animation. All she had  to remind herself is that indeed, she was capable of some sort of feeling was the dull ache in her chest. This pang that has replaced the cavity he once filled with a love as resplendent as a winter sunset. As resplendent as the wisps of white that cut various sites of the ombre sky. Allowing whatever slivers of faint white light to diffuse.

She had to learn to live with her thoughts, although she had no aspect of renewal. Though I see the world from two perspectives, each dimmed by either being marred by speed or slowness. She had to learn to live as though she had only one.

She tried to remind herself that indeed, with each end comes a new beginning but she couldn't find any beginnings where the act of loving him is something illegal. Something out of the sorts.

The sky was crying. So much so that it almost resembled her bleeding heart. Almost. No amount of rain could ever come close to the amount of blood that seeped from her  veins. Into her  lungs. Out of her mouth it felt like.

She had loved before. But never this hard. Never to the point of insanity. The point of doing the same thing time and time again yet expecting different results.

There's nothing , however that beats a siblings love. That innocent adoration and affinity for someone who shares parts of you that you don't share with the rest of the world. So she calls Sven. Her seventeen year old brother who for some reason keeps growing wiser and stronger everyday. She remembered holding him in her arms, scared for him. (She has struggled with irrational fears her whole life). Fears so crippling she even developed agoraphobia. Never leaving her place unless she could walk to the destination.

He doesn't pick up. The definition of rejection infiltrates her every thought.

Theres no pain like having everything and feeling like you have nothing at the same time. There's nothing like inhaling, and not being able to catch a breath thanks to the pain. The pain of not being loved back.

They met at the library every other Tuesday. And secretly that became her favorite day of the week. She thought of the Tuesdays when he wouldn't come and annoyance permeated her weak heart. She thought, if she ever had a chance to fall in love with herself, she'd be at that library every single day of the week. But that would only be narcissism and not the innocent adoration that comes with a requited love. Something she didn't have.

There's nothing worse than hating your own existence. Wanting to die so much so that you ask whatever celestial being that lies beyond the clouds to take you away. All she did to numb the pain of an unrequited love was smoke. She inhaled the burning fumes of tobacco and watched tenaciously how the wisps of grey would dissipate to seemingly nothing.

Time was an anchor. A concept that remained stagnant, like a sediment in a suspension that remained unperturbed.
She wondered everyday, why she existed. If her existence mattered at all, why the hell wasn't she notified. Why was she oblivious that her soul mattered even while it was anchored by the arms of reality.

Bedridden. Most days she slept in, attributing it to "extreme exhaustion" but she knew that things like exhaustion where cognitive. Not abstract. Not a lie she told herself every night to justify her evasion of the present. She knew she was falling into something deeper, some dark never ending oblivion that sucked stuff in and never regurgitated it.

She felt her muscles become limp as she sunk into the mattress of her bed. She felt the globs of water that fell from the sky engulf her into an ocean of sadness. Waves of misery. She felt the sensation of dizziness sway hee from side to side.

His  mind was  a maze she wanted to trek barefoot. The ferns that lay so intricately on the sides of his head, she wanted to feel against his palm. As though she had never felt anything before.

His mind was a maze  she wanted to trek barefoot. His emotions a storm she wanted to run into. Naked. She wanted his skies, the skies of that beautiful mind to cleanse her. Heal her. Cajoule her into thinking that indeed each day on earth is a chance at pure bliss. A world devoid of contentment.

She was sick. So sick that she convinced herself that  she was born to observe, never to take part. But one thing she was certain of.

His mind was a maze she wanted to trek barefoot.