Sofa Corner
I’m alone.
In the craze of a rave, I’m alone.
In the pandemonium of strangers, I’m alone.
In the recesses of my mind, I’m alone.
Where are all the friendly faces, the spirit guides, the allies of all kinds —
who vowed to never disavow me?
Now all I write about is the dark side of the force,
the ill-fated twin of love,
absence of abundance,
cliché naysays,
and odes to the anguished.
I sealed my ears,
sewed my eyes,
seared off my tongue.
Either life stopped being sensational, or they lost all sensation.
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With or without, nothing has changed.
In the comfort of a miserable corner —
I can fall within the musty pit I call “myself”.
I can reassure “myself” in a foreign language.
My folly was believing in “myself”.
I can… I cannot find “myself”.
My tears are the only things that can give me any hope.
They are the only things about me that have any set direction
but my tears never fall, so down I go in their stead.
An endless REM sleep,
characterised by dreaming without moving,
and going through life comatose.
I cannot.
Where my dreams take me, I cannot.
I’m not even allowed to say I cannot.
The only one who would listen is this dirty smudge on the couch.
~ Sofa Corner. An oeuvre by Saros Grey
