Desolation & Love Stories.

And there comes a point in life, when all you do is think, but feel like you can’t get through to your thoughts. When the people shouting out on the street might as well be voices in your head, keeping you from yourself. Could it be a safeguard against self-harm? Could it be exhaustion?

Could it be love?

My heart has been even more reckless this year than usual.

But I know better than to let you go.

It’s been one intense period of smiles and laughter after the other. It’s been birthday cakes with candles on fire, it’s been a never-ending stream of love and desire, without ever really reaching that wonderfully wicked feeling where everything comes together and you realize you might be good; but with that special other you’re so much better.

Looking around I find myself caught up in pillows and past.

Listening to all our music. That’s why your teenage loves fill so much: they color your music collection in lilac and love. Every sentence drips with the liquid of redeveloped images. When I sat on your stomach and suddenly began singing along to the music, “The color you say is black/Is the one you might lack,” and you started laughing with your teeth showing, asking me if I had suddenly become a singer? And I said no, and everything was so hilarious and surreal, because I couldn’t stop singing, while sitting on your stomach, my hands exploring your breasts in the dark of night, until I eventually laid down on you and shut myself up with your lips. That was the first night we made love.

I know places we can go, babe
I know places we can go, babe
The high won’t fade here, babe
No, the high won’t hurt here, babe

I know places we can go, babe
I know places we can go, babe
Where the highs won’t bring you down, babe
No, the highs won’t hurt you there, babe

(Lykke Li: I Know Places) I always fail to understand the drive to live on. I don’t know if my makeup is different from most other people’s. For me, living is a tool to make living bearable. I’m able to have 5 or 6 now-moments a year, I think. Everything else I do is nostalgia. Those are the places I visit, where the highs live on as the highs they were. A retreat from the nows that didn’t become now’s. They are the memories I wake up to as well as being my lullabies, when I remember to remember them. Sometimes I just walk around as an empty canister without film.

Sometimes I long for you, and sometimes I don’t.

Here you will realize I’m talking about times as well as persons; that I have a habit of entwining the entities and creating labyrinths so I have new places to get lost. Whether I despise clarity or carditis is beside the point. My attitude shifts, and around that revolves my entire world. You’re in it. Then you’re not. And it doesn’t really matter, ’cause it’s the same with me. I often leave and expect never to return. I wish I could keep that promise someday. I wish I could escape through loopholes with love.


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