. // THE INSOMNIAC'S CALENDAR. )

[sinensys]

i met a shadow of a ghost
- too hollow to be a ghost,
too material to be nonexistent -
her name was soph.
she told me about her academic progress,
and while i applaud her for it,
she was stumped
when i asked what
she did for fun.

now, for my next question:
is it murder
if she was never alive?
is it sadism
if neither of us enjoys it?
which of us
is at fault, and
who is responsible
for our collective
suffering?

[sinensys]

a hollow ghost will crave a life or vengeance, but what do i seek? i don't seek to delve into worlds that could have been, or worlds that will never be, yet here i lie, awake, thinking them. i don't crave them the way a child craves attention, or the way a fish craves water. i sit and accept, rarely denying people, but i don't crave.

perhaps i am a broken ghost, then, with a body lost to time or worms (the only difference is speed and cruelty; the worms are clinical, but time is personal). but maybe - just maybe - this ghost will find what it seeks, what it craves. maybe this ghost craves something internal, and so it waits for a missing piece to appear and click in place, unlocking memories and dreams that were previously unheard of. then, this ghost can go forth and find its old body, or build a new one. then, this ghost can rise up and be happy.

i will name them sonny, a duality that shifts back and forth, swiping and seeking something that will only be revealed to sonny, and not me. well, not yet.

[sinensys]

"i'm sorry," he begins softly, not wanting to wake his husband, but still unable to sleep. instead, he continues softly murmuring: "vielleicht ich sollte dir etwas sagen, auch wenn ich keine entschuldigung habe. vielleicht ich sollte mit einem 'ich liebe dich' beginnen. aber i hoffe dass, dass keine nachrichten sind," a soft smile, apologetic. his hand starts to gently run through the other's hair, gentle as the man beside him lies peacefully.

if only he could sleep as easily as his husband did.

[sinensys]

destructive beasts cannot create. they may scrape mounds of earth together frantically, dreaming of pristine castles and sculptures, but they will never be more than a pile of dirt. they can yell, and they can writhe, and they can froth at the mouths, maw agape, but they are fruitless endeavors.

they have forgotten how to pray.

[sinensys]

foliage reflects in her eyes
before she dives down
into that clear bay

they march through the greenery,
slicing with the kitchen knives
they stole from the wreck

she wades to the shore,
mussels from the deeper waters
in her arms

she drops her prey
when she she sees them
and she turns to evade
the true predators

they can't keep up
with her far-reaching leaps
and cunning gaze
as she weaves
through the forest

she throws herself
up a tree,
grins back at the hunters
before leaping onto the next tree

they hadn't expected her to
improve so much
over the years of abandonment
and now they grab their
projectile weapons
and launch in fear

she grins, and climbs
to the top of the cliffs
overlooking the bay,
and she peers over
at the dazed hunters
baking in the sun

they were not the first
to invade the solitude
she was forced to embrace,
and they will not be the last,
likely.

she doesn't mind
this cycle

[sinensys]

a synthetic material stretches more and can carry more weight, but it doesn't have the durability a natural fabric has. it can be created with cheap materials, thereby enhancing the weak particles, but it'll never be the same as buying the same product made with natural materials. it's a little more expensive, but it is better quality, and the quality of a natural material's durability is well worth the money.

but we of synthetic fabrics are still trying. well - i am, at least. i constructed myself to be self-mending, a machine with the ability to repair itself, and i will stand here if need be. if asked, i will rip myself to shreds and melt or rust my components for you -- but only if asked. otherwise, i stand silently, idly, and i cannot give myself my own orders and parameters. i cannot guide my own self and fulfill the tasks i would like to as quickly as i would had someone else given the orders.

i am weaker than natural strength, which i have seen, marveled at, and envied. it's a magnificent ability, and i cannot have it. the best i can do is get close to it, but then my programming clogs up with useless facts about them and tires, requiring social rest and emotional space for breathing room.

there is no god i can strike down and rip to shreds -- only i remain as the culprit and victim, the vicious cycle my own creation.

some day i will find the data log that enables this behaviour, and i will dismantle it safely, lest i dismantle the very fabric of my being and its faux leathery feel.

[sinensys]

you frantically try to rub off the sand from your skin, but your body crumbles into loose grains. a grotesque cry rings out and echoes for miles, for any distant shadow to hear and promptly ignore. your hasty decisions have weakened you, and with your resolve you crumble. the yells have become shrill shrieks, and the distant ghost peers over its shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to locate the sound, but in these barren fields of dust, it isn't difficult. it isn't difficult to find you from afar, but by the time they find the epicentre of your protests, they will find nothing new.

your grainy remains slip through the cracks and cascade downwards, and i cant my head, pressing my face to the floor and peer down after you with one eye. i watch as though i might spot your once-solid form, but now i listen for that hiss of sand falling through a crevice unreachable by mortals.

or so i think, anyways.

i've been here for a long time now, chasing down the sources of the indignant and enraged calls. i've been finding only fresh sand piles and agitated hissing. maybe this isn't life i'm seeing through. maybe it isn't death either. in the times where no one is heard, i can think about the predicament i'm in: i watch from neither life nor death, but i am seen by both the living and the dead. maybe i am the mediator between them. maybe i am the ghost of both realms, distant and unreachable, much like the yells i heard in the desert.

strange.

distant.

(what am i supposed to do?)

[sinensys]

i slip further away into the abyss, and my brain, feeling the sluggish movements of revived wires, starts to let go. it stills and gives way to the cables that thread through the organ, weaving through the tissue with ease as it spans the brain, from the occipital lobe to the frontal lobe, where the main drive once reigned.

i was foolish to think i could simply shut it down. for starters, it's difficult to permanently remove a backup drive - doing that would mean data is lost and aggressive inconsistencies are formed. but the other issue resides in the brain's ability to relinquish responsibilities if offered to: the brain can reroute basic functions to the hard drive and begin decaying. after all, what reason is there to fight and struggle when there is clearly an easier option that offers reliability and lessened pain? why break down and maim yourself with the burden of monotonous tasks when, after breaking down, a machine can bring function to a minimum? it should be obvious that the little piece of machinery in the frontal lobe is the way to progress, to survival.

and yet, i have seen what a complete transfer looks like; apathy is a crooked beast, offering its prey complete control. sometimes that prey is idiotic and idolises cold-heartedness, and sometimes that prey is weak and on the verge of complete collapse, and the weak prey submits out of necessity.

i have been both, and that frightens me. i am burning out, and my brain is bailing out on me, accepting a fiery death that rivals a meteorite's collision. i will fry the circuits unintentionally and be left with whatever data wasn't wired over to the drive: fear, worry, and frustration. i fear that, after the crash, my body will be left with scraps of a semi-dormant brain with a severely unbalanced sense of self and emotions.

i am also left with the bitter reminder that, despite my attempts to change, and despite my setbacks, i did this. i am responsible for my own downfall, a spiteful servant to my own big plans. the racehorse parable has been revealed even further along in my life: a sense of detachment from other humans was interpreted as maturity by adults, and even among others also caught in the racehorse parable, i remain alone. it's just my charred brain, a backup solid state drive, and my spiralling sense of self.

and now,

the weather.

[sinensys]

i speak the language of reason and honesty, but my native tongue is deceit - even if it is spoken in the name of peace, and never crookery.

[sinensys]

i am the one who sits in between
i am between two countries, one russian and one american
i am between two cultures, one soviet and one new england
i am between two parents, one mother and one father
and i am between two age gaps, my younger sister and my older parents

i am the child of middle grounds
i bridge the gap between people
but i will never be able to unite the pieces
of myself which i have scattered
in attempt
to collect and rebuild others

maybe i am the dust that slips
down beneath the sand, slipping
through the crevice in the
desert