It feels like you are waiting for someone to come and take you out of your house. To grab your hand and guide you off your kitchen stool, through your hallway, out of your door, down your street, past your neighbourhood, through your city, beyond your state, past the ocean, over the continents; out of this world.
I am decomposing from the inside out.
(First it was my liver to go; soaked in wine, alit in flames by the vodka, and extinguished with sweet drinks that made me think sourly of her.
Next: my tongue. Bitten, swallowed, knotted, neglected. Speech of what I wanted you to hear was drowned. (my pursed lips made no sound).
My bones were next. Tired bones. Bones that cracked.
(they were too heavy for me anyway).
The decomposition moved to my heart. The out of tune beats, the violent throbs. It would vibrate in its cage until exhausted, until there was no more love pumping through my veins. (it grew diseased).
Then slowly but surely, the toxins started traveling upwards, towards my ears; that only heard bad things; towards my eyes, that saw no means out; then my mind - where it consumed it wholly.)
And if you were wondering what this decomposition sounds like, what it looks like. Just picture a vacant look on my face, floral perfume, and the thrill shriek of a thousand bats flying out of their cave at midnight.
“All of your blood couldn’t change the colours of the ocean” he sings. Tonight, my ipod plays all of the songs that tell me to change. and his begins to play. and I sit tthere, in the middle of this magnificent city, drunk.
And another ‘he’ cups my cheeks and leans in, in his van, when Mr. Little Jeans, ‘The Suburb’ started playing through his subwofer. And I feel the vibrations but I don’t feel him. And I lean out before he gets too close. and I explain that I don’t like ‘he’s’ or ‘she’s’ or ‘them’s’. and he ask what it means. and i say “no kids. no person. no.”.
“this time won’t you save me? this time won’t you save me? baby, I can feel myself given up”.
And I would have never thought Nicki MInaj would have saved me the effort of this feeling. but she does, and he doesn’t. and that’s alright.
“To call for hands abouve. To lean on. Wouldn’t be good enough. For me, no. To call for hands abouve”
and it’s my thousandth time hearing this song but my first time listening. and I’ve never realised how much you could relate to something that you didn’t know.
And no matter how many people you meet, how many places you go, you can’t escape your self.
“my head is a jungle, jungle”
and it’s cool for people to say they love you, even if you can’t love them. and it’s cool to hear people hang up the phone, even if you are still on the line. and it’s cool. everything is fucking cool.
and I walk home. and i see my birthday banners. and i forget. it’s six in the morning. and i forget that i’ve finished my last breaths as a teenager. How else am I supposed to excuse my idiosyncrasy? My faults? 20? what the fuck does that even mean?
“I’m naked. I’m numb. I’m stupid. I’m staying”.
And whao boy, my music is really giving it to me today. And i don’t want people to read this. i don’t want my sober self to read this either. I want this to be here, as proof tonight happened. as proof all nights happened. and I’m not just somethings that…
and i usually think of something funny or witty to write. and it usually helps me heal. but i give it time and now it’s just like second hand smoke; just as bad but without the fix.
I’ve met many that are so unhappy with who they are, that they want to change what they become. I’ve met many that think they are so fucked up that they drink themselves to sleep. I’ve met those who need the presences of others, to know themselves.
And when it comes down to it, I’ve met none that seem complacent with where, who, and what they are.
We are always in need.
[ Harder. Bigger. Better. Faster. Stronger. ]
…..I’ve met some who love endlessly, and I’ve met more who crave so much love that one person’s isn’t enough. On a few occasions, I’ve met one who cheated herself and her loves. He made me believe in honesty and kindness again, through his love for her, whilst she was daydreaming about her ‘other half’ in his arms. & whenever I’d ask her to choose, to spare one out of their misery, to at least let him know the truth, she would reply “it would only break him”…
What is this perfection you dream of? Can you describe it to me?
& what is this happiness you think you’ve found?
To be in a never ending pursuit of happiness has to have a toll, it comes with a price. Your sanity. Your heart. Your life.
Pick or draw, the winner never takes all.
The heaviness is back.
People smuggle you, they hold you down, they cover their palms across your mouth and smile at you while you struggle to breath.
I go periods when I am in love with this world, there are things that make me love it. The creations, the words, the songs. It makes me think that we are bigger then we actually are.
But then I talk to them, these people. And they push down on me. And they make the air thicker until it’s stage smoke which tastes like popcorn and feels like water.
And I sleep too much or none at all, and I eat everything or nothing at all.
And they ask me questions but they talk when I try to answer. And I leave. I leave them and I leave it all behind in search of something new, something beautiful. In search of the beautiful people who have created those beautiful things.
But they we are fickle. We lust, we greed, we need, we fight, we hate. We hate everyone and ourselves. And I am a drop in this puddle, and when I look at them, I struggle to see past my reflection.
I’m exhausted.
My limbs hurt, my back aches. My eyelids droop.
I’m in a hostel somewhere in London city where bartenders are the only ones to catch my eye, and I don’t know if it’s due to their ambivalence to it all, or their access to my liquid gold.
I’m exhausted. And my head is heavy. 6 months of travelling has taken its toll. Meeting people and saying goodbye has left a deep mark that my body is trying to fix.
I’m exhausted because I’ve loved, been loved, seen love, and hopped for it in the wrong people. Going back home means going to bed.
Let me finally sleep for a little while and not feel my heart tire.
As stupid as this may sound; I keep forgetting that time is a continuing, consistent, exclusive thing. It doesn’t get attached to you as much as you are attached to it. It won’t wait for you. I won’t stop when you feel unsure. It won’t slow when your head feels dizzy. You can’t pause, fast forward, reply, rewind. You will forget about it. But it will never forget about you. You’re skin will remember. Your memories won’t.
(Source: idle-chaos)
my friends pulled me up from the basin full with water. All I needed was six more seconds. After taking in the gulps of air, I saw their faces. I forgot to tell a joke, I forgot to let them know that they shouldn’t take me seriously, that I am the ambiance.
she was crying and i told her to let it go. I was there for her, I always am. but, you see, i don’t know what to say. She told me to say nothing at all. My lack of experience in all things painful leaves me valueless in 6 am conversations.
‘fuck’ and ‘love’ are two, although contrast, similar things. I am incapable of doing both. I can not love with your intensity or desire and I can not fuck. fuck you. fuck life. fuck this. i simply can’t.
i wanted to leave. i wanted the water to take me. that still, thick water. i prayed i was with God. I am not strong enough. 19 years and I already feel ancient yet fragile. A facile ready to erode.
i can’t love this world and love my self, it’s either one or the other.
(Source: idle-chaos)
Sometimes people are just too heavy to carry. There’s a physical weight that sinks into you, a liquid weight that hardens your core.
(Source: idle-chaos)
Where do I begin?
Should I start by saying that they’ve melted me; they’ve liquefied my heart
and my mind?
My words can’t express the sorrow that I’ve been feeling. An air of animosity has been looming over us like these winter clouds, leaving has given me a chill that travels down my spine and through my finger tips.
We scream “GIVE ME LOVE” in bars. We drink. We drink a lot. We drink too
much.
But leaving has left us sober, it has rendered us weak.
Silent sobs bounced off the cold cobblestones and through our streets. Our
streets where we would wonder, fall, fight, scream, curse the world and
curse our selves…
We once ran, screamed, laughed through the streets of this old French
town at an hour where only the dangerous feel free. An old man
screamed “YOU’RE SICK” and maybe we were, maybe we are.
I heard the boys saying “I love you”.
Quietly, softly. It was the first and last time.
But how can you face never seeing someone again? To just shake hands and say “We’ve had fun. Have a good life”. To see that person day- in- day - out. To get used to their laugh, to hear it inside your own head, to want to hear it again.
It won’t be the same. We won’t have these moments.
We’ve cursed distance, we’ve cursed time.
Saying goodbye to someone for the last time leaves you faded. Like they’ve taken away a shade from you, they make your heart beat slower and your blood less red.
They’ll leave behind traces of them in you, things you didn’t even know you stole from them until you feel your body moving as theirs did, or until you hear yourself saying their favorite words, tasting it.
They say “you only accept the love you think you deserve” but I refuse to believe that I deserve the love that I have been given.
These people have given me love that has made me love my self. They have given me kindness and trust in this world. In this world where we are taught that evil lurks behind each door- I’ve opened them and found my own reflection.
(Source: idle-chaos)
I can never imagine someone thinking about me in ways that beautiful people are constantly thought about… Someone who’ll imagine kissing my lips; following the curve of my spine; tracing the dents of my bones; inspecting my flesh with all of the marks, bruises and scars attached.
I see people. I see beautiful people. I see why people love them.
They can’t get enough of them - they want to see them, touch them, be them…
I know the shape of my lips, I know their texture when I get thirsty. My tongue never seems to moisten anything but the corners of my mouth, were it would stay; erected, whenever I was in deep thought.
I know the way my eyebrows poke in every direction when I just wake up; I know that my hands are almost always cold… and that the tip of my nose gets bright red when its windy outside. I know they say that my eyes are my best features - but no one wants to see them when I cry.
You see, I know me, I know my body. I’ve seen how it works, seen it in bad lighting, in full length mirrors. I’ve observed it when it’s tired; and the way it slouches to the left. I’ve learned how it performs, what it does.
I’m fine with me… but in witnessing the careless beauty in others, I don’t want someone to waste their time trying to find it in myself.
(Source: idle-chaos)
So I’m in some dodgy hostel in Paris, in God knows where.
It’s 4am and I’ve just spent my life fortune on a ticket to Amsterdam and I’m planning on getting sohappythat it will be worth it.
We’ve past the 24hr point of sleep, where everything makes us laugh.
It doesn’t help that these rooms are fluroesent.
My friend say’s “Hello, all you dickheads”.
(Source: idle-chaos)
