PLACEBO

It was the denial of my existence, like a pragmatic sculpture put into being. There was never much to tell, but so much to learn. It kept spinning without a destination. I was locked in these four walls, the paint hung pale on the wall, chipping away at my life. It became like a tormented runaway without a destination. This was me, me in my winter.

I don't have much to say, I've never had much to say. Maybe it's because I heard so many cold lifeless words, that scar the parts of us we guard deep inside. Sometimes words become pain, everyone knows that, everyone has felt that. Well it was taken away, blinded with hot iron, the ever so silent wind blew away the ashes... . Like piercing beauties that turn stale and foul... .

I saw that face, that face of desperation. I heard it scream in the darkest of my dreams, the sound of a broken jukebox no one listens to. Riding like a sick spinning carousel... . But wait, it wasn't the realization that killed me. It was the horrid reality that became so tangible in their lives... .

It was the dawn of my life. The dawn that burned like a fluorescent landscape in front of my eyes. The unbelievable became real. So real, laughing in my face. It could be touched, felt, heard, even seen. These things I rightly took away in the past. Rightly in their scientific judgments.

But now I find out, the war had always been in me. I cry, it was all in vain. As much as I tried to find that lost meaning, I never looked back on the simple beggar on the street, crying out just to spare some change. Or the little girl that cried herself to sleep, each on of those dark nights.

By: Peter Kwiatkowski