If a picture is worth a thousand words, are a thousand words worth a picture?
Perhaps. Flipping through the last few pages of my notebooks from my Biology class at school, the random rubbish I’ve scrawled across the pages combined with a few doodles here and there paint a picture that is kind of upsetting to view. The picture is one of my mind as I sit through hour after hour of these classes, and quite interestingly it seems to be taken by my mind.
Here below, I’ve typed out a few of the lines that I’ve written in my books. In terms of literature, my sincere opinion is that they are useless bits of utter nonsense that are almost like kitsch when read individually. However, juxtaposed as they are here, I’m trying to encapsulate the feeling of being trapped, of feeling helpless and not in control of the situation I am in, of being completely lost in a world that I cannot share with anyone else.
It’s kind of like creating an HDR effect, I think. But with words.
The clock ticks in an inevitable manner
Slowly, almost apologetically
As if guilty of keeping track
Of every second of my life
Wasted, thus far
I look at its face, it gazes back wistfully
“I’m sorry” it whispers, barely audible
“I am no more in control of my destiny
Than you are of yours”
I understand now that clocks, like humans
Are bound by time
They too are slaves, are borrowers, of time.
My mind has held me hostage for as long as I can remember.
How do you try to defeat an enemy that was once a friend?
One who is inextricably a part of you?
I want so desperately to scream out for help
But I am no longer in control of my thoughts and actions.
Is Reality Really Real?
I’ve built so many castles in the air. Castles in which I reside. Castles with no doors, and no windows. I’ve trapped myself in my own Inception. A dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a…and now, there’s no way of coming back. You see, I’ve lost my hold on Reality. What is reality? Who is Reality? I repeat this question to the strangers that pass me by, and they all have varying opinions on the subject. Some describe the houses and trees miles below, and the feel of the ground beneath their feet. Some talk about human relationships. They say that is real.
Someone once told me that what we see is what we know and what we know is what is real to us.
I see tangerine trees and marmalade skies
I know of a girl with diamonds in her eyes
That, for me, is real. Reality is a field of cellophane flowers, a fleet of newspaper taxis, and a girl named Lucy.
This isn’t by me, but there seems to be a castle in that cloud, and my cellophane flowers are here too. And there’s Lucy. But she appears to be a boat.