Scattered

When you are high on the sleepless nights, drunk with the tears in your eyes but everyone around you needs more than that, to escape into their haven or hell, while you sit and strum your ukulele aimlessly and your head draws a blank as silent as a grave and as maddeningly loud as a flat lining ECG wave.

When your feelings run through your head and the heart only pumps blood into it. When you are so all over the place but have a catalog for searching things in your messed up mind. When metaphors are your way of communicating with your own self and you see life pass by your car in flashes, in an uncanny rhythm with the street lights. Running. Running, away from you.

When you miss someone so much that your body hurts, every ache reverberated with their memory. Your thoughts are so contaminated with their scent that you sit holding your head in your hands and try to segregate yours from what is theirs.

But all this doesn’t make you romantic, it makes you a living, breathing oxymoron because you choose some metaphors and reject others. You see the silver lining but refuse to see the clouds, and at times rain reminds you of home while at others of the silver lining that never really showed you the way. You know you love from your limbic system and hormones flowing through your vessels, yet your heart aches in your poetry. You are cynical enough to laugh at love but cry for yours.

But the catch is that you don’t want to leave, you want to dwell here. You want to dwell in this beautiful mess, which is yours and yours only.

In your scattered thoughts.