Oh!, the pain and the glory of young idealists, unsure of what it is for which they wander.
You’re as constant as that last soggy corn flake at the bottom of the bowl of milk, the sunk ship that keeps giving the spoon the slip. This metaphor makes me the spoon, the scratched silver, the inverted picture on the concave, the not-quite-right: not even able to hold on to a damn corn flake.
More apt perhaps to call me a ship that can’t find shore than a spoon that’s lost its soggy cereal, but it’s too cliche to call you my lighthouse although it’s true that you’re slipping in and out, more often off than not and we both suck at believing in love unless we’re lit, which is to say drunk, and even then we never shirk the shame of leaving the lights on and never too gone not to be quiet, the mast struck, a nicer way of pretending its more than a drunk fuck.
You have the silent intensity of the ocean, the salty pleasure of contact, the swell and sinking fear. You have the bad one-liners ready to interrupt what might otherwise be confused as romantic: “No one ever taught ya how to avoid all this sand in the movies!”
As follows the random arrival of the glow-in-the-dark plankton that only lights up the shore once a year, when I stumble upon you at midnight I’m mystified, moonlit bodies appearing as though carved in Apollonian marble — but about as meaningless, ultimately, as a love poem that starts with my hungover inability to finish breakfast and comparing a lover to a soggy corn flake.@4 months ago with 3 notes
I seek serenity, I seek happiness joined with truth, my own inventions.@5 months ago with 1 note
@7 months ago
“Who are YOU?" said the Caterpillar.
This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, sir, just at present— at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”
standing in line, who knows what for, or maybe we were warming ourselves by the fire (it’s been cold) — either way, she turned to me and asked if ever i’d imagined my funeral? why yes, of course, and i’d be taxidermied and everyone would be wearing yellow, mandatorilly, and everyone would take a turn sitting next to me on the carousel — but how would they make you sit upright? the other girl asks and i ignore her, oh yes, i’d be sitting there and everyone would have their go, my arms making wide, round gestures. eventually we realize i’ve misspoken, saying carousel instead of ferris wheel (i’ve always been terrified but of course they don’t know that — i mean of ferris wheels, they’re my least favorite ride, but of course also of dying; i’ve been dreaming of emergency rooms and not carnivals, after all) — but ignore the party tricks, the first girl (the one i’m secretly in love with) interrupts me: no one cares about the small details, the point is, haven’t you ever wondered what they’d all say, how they’d all react? of course i am, i reply — but one could never be privileged knowledge like that!@8 months ago
“The almost: love’s dreadful regime, but also the dream’s disappointing status.”
How much despair do you think you ought to bear before it becomes undignified: before whatever your heart’s been secretly building up cracks under the weight of this imperial emptiness; before the breath whistling in your ear when your hands meet fades away into blanket statements about his emotional incapacity?
There is no shame in being afraid of how much more difficult it is to let go of delusions of goodness in lieu of accepting that this is not a perfect fit — that this is not and never has been and can never become what you want. Stop worrying that you’re being taken advantage of and get cozy with knowing that you’d rather not risk taking advantage.
It’s okay.@9 months ago with 2 notes
that i might look at you without shame in the middle of this metaphysical night@4 months ago with 1 note
Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen
Nobody knows my sorrow
Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen
Glory Hallelujah is a tragicomic moment. Going to struggle anyway. Cut against the grain anyway. Never view oneself as a spectator but always a participant. Never view oneself as somehow outside the struggle but always meshed in it.@4 months ago
to write this now leaves traces on my face of reclaimed love, of burning and delightful proximity. to write this locates me again in the vivid visibility of confinement, now that time is flowing once more for us and writing is once again what it used to be: a game, a means by which we get close to what exists in the most vivid of dreams, a labor of blue afternoons, a task encircled by refusals, sparkles, embraces, memories of confinement,@5 months ago with 1 note
"Vulnerability reacquaints us with what Camus calls the ‘benign indifference of the world.’"
unlearn how to forgive. for the grand belief that you required, don’t i deserve a fucking shout in the street? don’t i? no?@6 months ago
INFORMATION-can be received only where there is doubt; and doubt implies the existence of alternatives-where choice, selection, or discrimination is called for.@7 months ago
"everybody’s living in a dream state. you just gotta realize that you’re a dream figure in someone else’s dream and that’s what self awareness is."
miss the train to buy the hobo a hotdog, teach me constellations while we lay on our backs sipping forties in the park, cook me 4 am french toast the way i like instead of the way you like, wake me up for sunrise when we drive through the night. welcome to my dream state.
holding on to the 12th hour i said, i feel like i got hit by a bus and you said, if that’s not how you feel after visiting home, you’re not doing it right.
looking down on the city’s golden haze we averted our eyes and agreed that belief is easier, if more easily broken, before it’s become kinetic.@9 months ago with 1 note
maybe that was it@10 months ago