I kinda wish I could manage a place in my head.

Something somewhere, never too far. To look at how people are distant both from down below and up there, too high to think about falling.

A place opened every day, every moment of the day.
A hideaway.
Or just a moment in time, pretty much.

It's not like I could imagine much more than I had to.

If I were to be a man who knows about his certain death, one day, by the hand of someone he knows better than himself, I wouldn't try thinking about that. "I won't be there for too long" is a sentence I was born with and was gonna stick too for the rest of what we could call my existence.

I imagined this place many times. Or so would I think. It's this kind of feeling to know you've already landed on a thought like this before, and still can't quite remember, put words on it or the moment it first happened...

My memory is a puzzle on itself I guess.

I can't ever get names correctly. Even ones I hear everyday. Mine is simple. Four letters, a single sound. Sound I didn't witness since years. They always go with the formal "you" usually.

As they show me pictures... That's what keeps me a foot on the ground, one more handshake in this reality. Money changes owner, more to add when done. It's not an amusing job.

This place would be somewhere anywhere. I couldn't get to it, naturally. And it wouldn't be pretty anyway. Nor specifically repulsing. Just a somewhat compromise between all the torved and endless thoughts in crossways. Where the doors all lead to if you sleep for too long. The pinpoint everything traverses to encounter everything else. Or the other way around. Anyway, really...

There'd be a house. Probably. All places needed a house, in my mind. Because out in the wild, words wouldn't fit the blank space. Void could be scary at times, and maybe, maybe... Maybe if we took distance just to watch from afar at some point, it could disappear.

At least, a house wouldn't evaporate in the nothingness. There would always be a trail of smoke coming out of the fireplace, waiting for somebody else to stand by the warmth and rest their cold bones, their blue flesh and rest their heads full of the too much of emptiness, or the feeling to be full of emptiness.

In some room, if I had to say that one would be mine, my very own and where I would install, there would have to be these little papers all over the walls, ink marks graved in it, I couldn't comprehend, chaotic mish-mashes I would look at for hours. Forget about, the second I take my eye off of it...

There wouldn't be a roof. But there wouldn't be any sky to be in awe before either. Rain still would fall. And I could admire it. In my room or in the grand central warm one. Watching it lower the fire to a simple spark, a swinging light, dancing briefly, vanishing, reappearing some time after, shortened to a bit. Smothered and still shining through a potent shade of red. Scarlet red.

A shade I learned to not be afraid of.

It's important distinguishing the one coming from others from the one coming from you. Another strange joke of life that never told me the difference in the first place.

Their names...

Of course, they would wake me up at night, in a secondary state. A sight stuck to the ceiling, dark and silent, forgetting how to breathe yet not looking for air. Living a minute on the other side. In between death and something worse.

Death and something worse...
The four letter words...

For some reason they obsessed me.

Not because my name was one of them... That's the only thing I could remember about it anyway. Lost in the fog of literally being the fog I was trying to find it in.

Four letter words. And I would draw it on a flying sheet. A perfect square. Four corners, a closed room. No idea how I went in, how I would get out.

The letters would form the straight lines I needed to follow, keeping sanity in a bocal of lime light. The ones where you put fireflies. Catching a bit more from life than I deserved.
L. I. F. E.

Dotted raw black sins sticking it all together.
I would let it swallow me if it could.

I had tried many times already.
Observing what the mirror had to proclaim about it. Strange addiction to hold onto, the image of a self I could only see from other’s view. The pictures invariably aided me. They could not consume in this stone brewed magma, this outer utter inside out downwards trump card. Grey snow, bone cinders. To aliment the machine.
There was never enough to refuel after a phase of unloading.

But pictures could calm down the game for at least a moment. So i had what mattered the most in this world : a clear mind and an idea of what to do next. Didn’t happen often.

But surely was there a place where you it wasn’t all cross and lines.
A place only closed to me.
I wouldn’t dare get to it.
Wouldn’t find it.

Somewhere anywhere.