SynthPanda_'s Page - Wanderers' Library Sandbox

SynthPanda_'s Page

i wanted to be haunted by ghosts
this year,
not mistakes.
yet here i am
at 4 am, limp in my bed
but unable to sleep.
a summer wind enters
through my ajar window.
fuck me,
even the weather is wrong
this year.

maybe it's something in the air.

i remember putting on that
denim skirt
that barely fit,
even then.
that costume was more fitting
than any of the 'outfits'
i wore that summer.
this summer was no different.
maybe it was worse.
i mean, i'm not even sure
if i'm going to finish
my costume.

i'm a hypocrite.

i just wanted that same happiness
for you.
and you are happy!
relatively.
things are so much harder for you,
and yet you still wake up every day, and
manage to keep us hopeful,
smiling.

it's one of the countless reasons i adore you.

the way things are going,
i might just stay in
this year.
it's a bit sad.
but it's really not
the end of the world,
when i know
i can look forward
to seeing you.

00,000 Ft.

Up the ladder, follow the table scraps I need to survive. They taste of rust and capitulation.

The ladder sways in the wind, and I wonder, for a moment, what it is attached to. Although the fog obscures my vision, I know deep down that if my hand or foot are to miss a rung, I will certainly fall. How long have I been climbing?

00,007 Ft.

In the dead of Alaska, My Sister.

The winds at this high up surf the cavity in my chest, and remind me where my heart is. Was. The metal rungs of the rusted ladder are like ice. For a moment, I wish I had more than just my knitted wool socks. I know realistically, that would hardly help.

00,008 Ft.

I wonder if she misses me? I know I'm missed — even the wind up here caries its tune — but does she miss me as I do her?

00,013 Ft.

Would you still love me when I come back, a ghost of what I once was?

This place is killing me, grinding all of me that is physical and ethereal into a marketable glue, but I think you know that's not what I mean. Almost lost my grip.

Would you still love me when I come back in a wooden box, a cloth wrapped around my head and terrible preserving chemicals pouring through my veins?

They wouldn't even tell you, would they.

Just a rusty rung, I suppose.

00,020 Ft.

Why have I kept on?

My ambitions are mine, but they are but a snow angel, erased by the wind and snow. A family photo consumed by the fire. How long will this hallowed structure stand after we're gone? Hollowed out, putting more and more pressure on the bricks that keep the tumorous ladder standing.

00,021 Ft.

Things won't be much better If I come back, I know. That which lies eternal beyond the earth calls me, even from here. Especially from up here. With every particle of ice which fuses itself to my cheek, I want nothing more than to see this spiral ladder fall.

I want it to become an inconceived thing.

00,023 Ft.

I want to see you.

00,023 Ft.

I let go.

-16,439 Ft.

The four bones in my leg are now four thousand. They say I'll never climb again, as though that is a punishment. From down here, the winter breeze feels even colder, a strong and meaningful gust dragging my body slightly west.