Nothing but chemicals

I never know which language to use, like I never know which way to follow. Like I never know which country is my own or which person. I could never pick and choose. That was also why I always messing about. I never saw the wrong doing in taking several lovers. I’ve never even ever really seen the wrong doing in lying (unless you look at the big picture, and then it’s awful and it will change your life). Because of this I always tend to broaden my horizons instead of stretching them. When it came to narrowing down my path in life, I always travel the easiest path offered until something or other comes along that slightly (but only ever so slightly) diverts this easy going pace. I found that with you, lover, just as with many before. I commit a series of faults, great flaws in my defect through which then I travel onto becoming the X (the one that Sontag once mentioned). “If there is chicken I’ll take the leg, if there is a draught I’ll sit on it”. 

Lover, I found that, like with many of my tiny faults and flaws, my tiny humanities that I am indeed human. Human and undecided, we shall call it but only because human and unable seems too harsh for a spirit so capable of enjoying poetry and kindness. I found that I am at my happiest surrounded by the scent of culture, endlessly embedded in old books and records, old tunes and conversations. In regards of the mind I found that while on a strict diet of you it flourishes. I guess love and writing like pen and paper have always been the greatest of friends. Knowledge keeps me sane whilst dwelling in a bathe of sole and raw emotion. It is somehow soothing to know that even feeling all of these things I can continue with the knowledge that they’re nothing but chemicals.       

Cold coffee and warm wine

I tend to dwell too much on things, on people. Recently, I find myself getting lost in you, increasingly fascinated. 

I found multiples things since our last meeting. I found that my pursue of knowledge, just as your own, is like a bottomless well. I have also found that I accidentally let it dry with the long arid summer weather. So, I enrolled in school to occupy first, my mind (and then, maybe, my soul). My heart, he is restless. He cannot sleep. He lingers in you. He lingers in your touch and my body follows, yearning. 

I still do not know which road to pave. I still do not know which one is my way.  He is at the end of a rope me at the end of another, screaming for understanding. My lack of love is too great. I would fly out to you but that would solve nothing. I would be, again, flying further away from myself, searching for love when love should come from within. 

I found that the memory of your touch is still able to make me moan, alone. I found that his touch is drier and his eyes (his soul) further away, almost out of reach. I do not know which way to go. I have no strength to hang on and neither to let it all go. 

The chaos around helps me think. It directs me to your words, your melody and your made up phrases about a girl with her hair up in a ponytail, dancing like a ballet star. Like a doctor taking about jazz. embellishing the world, you are, sitting in demi shadow. The rock where the children sat, making their first moves, one towards the other, hand touching another. Oh, how new it looked, how brand new it felt. Like the world died all at once and came back to life. 

Then came the night lights, and the guitars moaning with sadness, carrying the grief of thousands. Darkness ensues. Our love was inconspicuous there, in the midst of all that was feeling and all that was fog. We drank to life, to the lives we were grateful for, I am grateful. Grateful for sharing a drink, laughing, somehow easing, lifting the  weight of the world off my shoulders. Maybe tonight we can go dancing and maybe tomorrow we can go and forget.

Darkness always precedes light. I was thunder and he was lightning. Together we arrived in the morning and not a ray of sunlight, not even a bird dared sing or show its wings. Another day follows, he resumes his place, unknowing and hazy eyed, not caring. I resume my thinking, my daydreaming. I dare, for the first time, to think of a house on parisien ground. 

All is fair in love and war, I’ve heard, somewhere, waving in the wind. “There always has to be someone to write about”, you say over coffee. I nod. In between the lines we read, this cannot be. I resume walking, leave the half drank cup of coffee behind. You stare for a while and then just disappear into the darkness of my mind.      

How I lost myself

1. I was all together for a while. And then I realized that wasn't really for me. And so I went back to being ten thousand pieces on the floor lying.
2. Ten thousand pieces are difficult to put together and no one really knew how to go about it. So no ever tried to put me together again.
3. Once I was broken, I was broken forever. No amount of glue could fix it.
4. I tried once, when I was younger and I cut my hands on the fragments. So I got angry and broke them into two pieces each piece.
5. So now there were twenty thousand pieces and it was even more difficult. I did not want to do it.
6. There is such beautiful art you can create once you're broken. All art is created by broken pieces. So, I tried to create and realized that my mind was out of creativity for a long time. I should've enjoyed it when I had it.
7. Now the pieces are no longer made of glass, they are made of regret. I am made of regret and sadness.
8. Depression is one of those things. You can fight it all you want but if you're not strong enough the monster will always come back and capture you in your sleep. I started  having nightmares and realized that I'm just not strong enough.
9. I went back home, all of my pieces in my hands hoping someone there would be able to fix it.
10. My mom told me I was weak and, even though she was right, it made the pieces break into thirty thousand.
11. The same happened with everyone else.
12. Now I had pieces that looked just like snowflakes. They're were little, so little and fragile. They no longer resembled me, who I used to be.
13. When I was a child, all was right and I didn't feel pain. Then something happened. Maybe tragedy just runs in my veins. There is nothing I can do now.
14. I had thirty thousand pieces. There were so many that I lost a few. I lost bits of me with every step I took.
15. I couldn't see a way out of it. I was standing still on the street afraid of everything that could made me lose even one more piece. They all seemed so precious now and I couldn't even move.
16. I can't build myself up from nothing! I kept screaming paralyzed on the street with all the pieces I had left in my arms, cradling them like a baby. They were me, they were my baby.
17. No one stopped to help. I needed someone to help me carry them, I just needed help carrying them to safety so I could put them in a box and close them forever. I couldn't afford losing anymore. But no one stopped, no one offered to help.
18. I don't know how long I stood on that street, with no idea if I could move. It was cold, it was freezing, I was freezing from loneliness not even shivering, just freezing inside. That's the worst type of cold, I think now that I have felt it. A freezing river stream that starts at the steam of the brain and moves down quickly. It freezes from the inside out, completely. I hope that you never feel it.
19. I died frozen. All my pieces flew away and I crumbled on the floor and just died. There was nothing tragic about it, there was no one to mourn me. So my body just stayed there. People kept rushing by and the most beautiful thing happened. People passing by inhaled the small pieces of me by accident. And they were instantly full of regret. They apologised, they came to carry me, they took me away, they made me feel warm. But I was still dead, there was nothing to do now. There was no tragedy here. I did it to myself.    

Wonder

I wonder. I wonder when, I wonder why. I wonder. I wonder on your beauty and on my undeserving body. I wonder on life and how it is always one step behind. I wonder on you and on your way of making me feel like I’m nothing belonging nowhere. And in all this wonder I forget to marvel. I forget to marvel at your love and your worry for me. I forget to marvel at the sun when it shines and at the stars when they try to point me home. In all of this wondering I forgot how to live, I forgot how to breathe in the world and how to let go. I forgot how to forget, how to forget about you, I forgot how to love you without hurting you.

In my wonder, in all my wonderings all remains unanswered and life remains a mystery for those who, like me, fail to comprehend human behaviour. Maybe we just over think what we shouldn’t. Maybe we should over think our bodies instead of our feelings.

And now all you do while I’m out here and you’re at home, is pull at the nose around my neck, chocking me. I’m drowning in exhaustion and I’m too tired to swim to shore. It is, all of this, a mixture of suicidal things. You said you would never hit a girl but psychological hits don’t count.     

I can't do this any longer

When she awoke and upon the awakening of it all, she sighed. She sighed quietly and she cried quietly when all she wanted to do was scream her lungs out. But people still exist in her house and people cannot hear her because all the questions that would follow would be just too much for her to withstand.


- I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this but I don’t even know what this is. I’m confused. I’m overwhelmed. I just want to go and never return.

She no longer even knew who she was, what she wanted. She just knew, all the time it was like a song stuck in her mind, “I can’t keep doing this”.

- I just can’t keep on going, if I do I might just explode because all of this is wrong, everything is backwards. This wasn’t supposed to be like this! Or was it?

In the darkness of night, then she would be free to scream and to cry in the parks under the moonlight. No one could hear her and even if they could no one would really care about the girl lying on the grass, they just assume she’s drunk and can’t stand up. She’s not drunk, she barely drinks, she’s just broken but that’s harder to fix.

Horkheimer made me think

And in the light of darkness we all fail. Even they fall down from the skies, they who thought they were mighty and above it all, pedestals fall. Everything breaks, that’s all humanity ever does is break apart what was once pure and light. Art is no longer art, is consumption, it’s sold back and forth. It’s status. You are not better for having that painting on your wall, you are better if you understand it and if you respect it. Words lost all meaning, not even the tenderest of them have feeling. It’s purely ridiculous to say I love you or I need you, it’s everywhere. People need things, they desire things, they overcompensate for their dead end jobs, for their own lacks and insecurities with objects. Wearable and tearable things and that is all humanity can ever do while under the power of capitalism. Use and throw away, everything is disposable, even people. Or maybe not people. Or maybe yes? We’re all confused in this sea of adverts telling us what we need, what we want, how and who we should be. We let corporations teach us how to live our lives and we don’t even realize how constrained we actually are in our choices. We have the illusion of choice with a million or more tracks on my itunes but they’re all the same, with movies being produced constantly with so many different topics but we miss the actual point, they’re all the same. They’re built to distract, to provide mindless entertainment. The viewer doesn’t need to think, it can guess what is coming next and is flattered when that happens (Adorno, T. W., with Max Horkheimer. Dialectic of Enlightenment.). Art itself has been transformed into a commodity and a way of stereotyping as well.

We need to fit in. We have this enormous urge, all of society, this amazing desire to be accepted. In order for that to happen, we better our chances by dipping into the mainstream pot of culture. Popular culture is now, more than ever, low culture. All of it is based on the same idea, all of it is identifiable and anything deriving from the norm is immediately set aside by people and by the system itself, by the culture industry. The point of music is no longer to make something great; something new but to make money and that is only a small by-product of the capitalist system in which we continue to be trapped without knowledge of the bars that surround us. If you derive in any way from the stereotype you are removed of the mainstream society, people themselves remove you, label you as “weird” and keep on living their sheep-like existences. This society is broken. People are broken just as much as the system is. If you want to change the system you need to start by changing people. People formed it, people asked for a uniformity, for an invisible prison of choice, for a beauty driven society, for a flat culture.  

Too many remain unanswered

She asked too severe questions. Too serious, they would always whisper to her. The truth was that her thoughts were not even half that deep. Why can't you see it's not ideal? Her questions were constant, running through her mind, unignorable. Simple or intense and intricate. Oh, she would sigh when all of it would overwhelm her, she felt like swimming but the corrent was too strong and she ended up buying an iPhone and slowly dying without saying a word. Losing your identity sucks but it's painful when you're the only one to blame. She would curl up sometimes, so fragile and broken I was always too afraid to touch her. When I see a creature so interesting I never really know how to react. And she was the most interesting broken piece of life I had seen in years. The scrapbooks pilled up in her room contained too many memories of a previous life and she would never really open them unless despair took over and she would sob in the corner missing every single bit of life that she once had. It's difficult to climb out a of a well without a rope.

I went through a stage once. I wanted to write beatiful and meaningful things but I realised that all that lived in my mind was darkness so I couldn't really write about light. I got used to that idea, I grew accostumed to the darkness within me and knew it would never really disapear. For a while I fed it nicely. It gave me inspiration to write about suicide and to write about her who was just as dark as I was, curled up in a corner of our joint kitchen drunkenly sobbing. I never really knew why she cried so much and so hard. It was like it was too painful for her to live. Maybe she still felt a bit of life in her and that was the part that would cry.

Her questions made me think. I fed my darkness a bit more and started slowly typing. I found that I could wirte beautifully if all of it was darkness and death. The typing eventually became furious, like a tempest of sand in the desert. And it was obessessive. I would spend days just with words running through my mind and how painful was that. I couldn't move past a pen and paper, my wrist had a permanent injury by then.

He was too intense. He typed away furiously in our joint study while I sobbed in the kitchen clutching memories and wine. All my memories from that time are fuzzy bits of confusion. I knew, even back then, that he wrote about me. I wonder if he knew how much of my own writing was about him... Whenever I meet someone as dark as me I find a way to make them darker until they give up and go on their way searching for light once again. I never really understood why people chase the sun, the dark is so much more conforting and warm. It was just crazy.

I felt like dying, all the time, that's all I could think after a while, I wanted to die. None of this felt worth it when I knew, and I knew it to the bottom of my soul, that I would never be as rich as I once was. Why can't you see it's not fair? I choose to be happier, to forget you ever existed and ignore that I ever had anything else but nothing. It was difficult but Freud taught me how to repress memories so that's what I did. I pushed you back into the wildness of my subconscious and continued to move, a shell with no substance. And I felt like dying, every day it was stronger the will not to live. No matter how many times I would try it though I would always find myslef on the rooftop of a building asking myself if it was worth the jump. I asked too many questions, I always overthink. That's why my love for life would win over my will to die. I want the answers to all my questions so I would turn around away from the edge ashamed to find myslef useless but uncapable of reciclying myself. I would like to start over. Starting from the point where I met you and try to get it right this time. All I wanted was a second try...

A ball of concentrated anger

When night fell she was cold on the outside but warm on the inside. And she was light. I remember her slow whisper, her soft smile while she felt happier than she had been in years. A strike of lightning, that was, the change in her over only a few days. While he disappeared further down into the darkness of her mind, she lit up and I saw her smile. She stood, back straight, light once again, without his weight to tie her down to the peering darkness of night. And all she was was power, energy, light and revival of a life once gone.

She would constantly forget about him. For the first time ever since she first heard his voice and touched his face she forgot how it sounded or how it felt. She forgot why she loved him so badly. All that was left, in the end off all that, was hatred. Pure fury and spite. I believed that she could kill when I saw her filled with concentrated anger throwing punches at the walls. First stage be gone. She could have killed him on sight, I know this by now, she's dangerous in a peculiar way. No one would say... Second stage she wanted revenge. The hours had passed, the house was new but it needed to be cleaned. Cleaners were called, all was done. Revenge had come and past. And he stayed. For the other she forgot, she blocked, repressed even the smallest trace of him on her (that's what the cleaners were for). And once again, she was light. Light as a feather, shining brighter than the sun, blinding me.      

Perfectly similar/ Electrically opposites

And as she rose, everything ached, body and soul. She wondered why and felt the empty space in her heart with princess hands. She felt him disappear as everything else lit up. The sun was not present but it wouldn't be for a long time, might as well get used to it

 - Might just pack my things and run to meet you. - She silently whispered in the cold darkness of Winter.

And she meant it, for the sound she made, like hissing, she hated it. She hated all of herself just for thinking about him. The perfect lie she told herself and that she would always tell. In the end maybe she loved herself.

 - You and me, we are just so perfectly similar and so electrically opposites.

He rose much earlier than she did but it was routine and he didn't complain. He had breakfast, he went to work, he had lunch, he went back home. Nothing made sense either but it wasn't his fault. The world would have to take blame because none of them would. Even if they could.

As sun rises

She was beautiful, as beautiful and blinding as sunlight. As sun rose, she rose and gave light, life to my existence. I can remember it clearly now, when once I could not remember her voice or her face at all. I remember how she flooded my life with brightness and greatness and how everything just seemed much easier in her eyes. I can see now, in the back of my eyelids, her eyes imprinted sleepy and tired but so happy inside. And now all that remains is my memories, the rest of the leftover half of a love that just could not be. I would drink it all, in one big gulp, all at once, if you would allow me.

I still remember, up until this day, how you walked into my life, carrying only a big backpack and a smile, under the early sunlight in March. And everything was belonging, longing for you until you came back and I could feel complete again. Every time you would go, travel on some airplane and leave me behind I would cry one thousand tears exactly, one for each step I took further away from you. And it would always rain. Would it be Summer or Winter it would always rain each time you walked away. Even the sun loves you enough to follow you around the world chasing your dreams and your light. I guess I don't love you as much, although I would say I love you more than life itself.

Nothing made to me more sense than laying by your side dreaming our common ground.  

The art of writing about time

And for a second there everything smelled of you. I inhaled slowly and had to sit down because all of you was just too much for me. It reminded me of past nights and happy days by your side. It made me warm all throughout, in and out. And just as fast as it came it went, just like you in the end, constantly vanishing. It made me miss you all over again.

Ten minutes had passed, only ten minutes and it just seemed like a lifetime from where I was sitting. Out there, somewhere home you saw those ten minutes come and go and you would never guess that I was somewhere else, sitting down, inhaling you so close. I dream of drinking you through a straw and never finishing.

Long time has passed since we were both home and it made us both so old and cold. You sat down as I laid my tired body on the ground and started singing out our broken hearts. Long time has passed since I saw you last, 35 days to be exact. 840 hours, 50400 minutes that I have missed you.

Ten minutes more and I feel tired of watching the time pass by so slowly. I just wish I could have you now.