Algebra

I used to like to graph functions.
I liked the surprise I felt with each touch of the pencil on paper.
Straight lines climbing towards infinity.
Curved lines approaching that asymptotic line which seemed to appear
all of the sudden in the middle of the page.
I was fascinated with that reaching without actually touching.
Never actually achieving. How did the lines really feel?
There was great sadness too in those graphs…

Riding the ride

I feel the tears of not being falling inside me.
I feel myself smashing against words and thoughts.
The vowels scratch me. They are so easy to say, but so difficult to caress…
Is it day or night? Is this light? Is it really me?
I turn around and I see myself looking at me.
I stretch my hand so I can get over memories.
I stop and realize that I am just a memory.
I am a forgotten page in a book with lots of pages.
People.

My thoughts hurt. My hidden thoughts, your unsaid thoughts,
buried in the deepness of other thoughts.
My mind embraces them, empties them of all meaning and feeling,
transforms them into black letters on a white wall and then,
into words more black and more empty.
I’m better, right? The words have passed…