My body is a big ball of unrest and not even the trees can calm me. I try to imagine them with their long fingers stretching up into the air, reaching for empty space. But my imagination cuts them off before they reach anything other than the feeling of longing. My imagination is always too concerned with reality, when I wish for the unreal possibilities that lie beyond these acres. I draw mystical eyes because I feel as if you’re seeing through my fair skin and straight into my dark soul, as if every blink from your eyes is a shot with a loaded gun, tearing through my respectable appearance to drain my sinful blood. And I would hide behind the trees, but they have been cut down by now. And I would hide on different islands, but all my bridges have been burnt. And I would scream. And I would rage. And I would run like the wind and my footsteps would spread like wildfire. But there’s no sound. There’s no emotion. There’s no wind and there’s no oxygen here. There’s just your eye on me, and me suffocating in my own web of lies.
All characters portrayed herein are real people from the real world. The events, however… well, you be the judge of that.
A snow-white half-moon rests above the church roof, signaling the coming of night on a summer’s day, and I lay, and I lay, in the grass watching your every twist and turn, sucking the last breaths of sunlit air, your skin several shades darker than when we left our bed on the other side of the tracks.
Recognizing your hair from some other life, my eyes become memory, and I’m paralyzed remembering how the white strands form around your neck. You sway. There’s music in front of you. And there’s you in front of me, not noticing me noticing you. And I’m my own self, falling for a good head of hair, falling, falling, falling. It’s a damned miracle I keep getting up to fall again.
His glasses have fascinated me for days now. Square, thick. The glass tainted, probably from smoking. The kind that gives the effect of a magnifying glass, his eyes immense behind the material. I suspect he is seeing something else, something more, so I choose to close my eyes; evening the playing field.
They’re in there. I just wish I knew what “in there” means. It’s sound, definitely. Sound. And it’s all around me. And it’s made by real people, I think. It’s like a conversation, if I speak the right words at the right time.
You say you’re full, that the dessert was over the top. I concur, and rest my head on your shoulder. Nothing more, nothing less. Certainly nothing less than my head resting on your shoulder. Following the movement of your breathing through your body. Slow, then not so slow. And I’m the only one who knows why.
I just lay in the ocean, floating, resting. Your stars above me. Even with the salt in my eyes, I keep them open and watching. Oh how often I keep them open, watching nothing. But how could I ever allow myself to miss a moment of you?
Stopped in my tracks as I walk by. A sudden feeling, not of being watched, but of watching someone from out the corner of my eye. Turn my head against the Earth’s rotation, ninety degrees and watching. The movement, the floating, the silent landing. A jump, like any jump, yet so unlike anything I have ever seen before. It was you, breathless and tall. I could feel my eyes turning into dust. And two strangers turning into dust. Turning into dust.
Each day I would pace the same streets at different hours, simultaneously waiting and acting my chance to be offered a chance by nature. Each day would hold hope, that this would be the day – THE day – where the promises of the Universe would ring true. The unity of atoms, granting a small cluster an encounter with another. I don’t recall where the fire started. Just that it did.
On being real: Regretting and forgetting, and making the same mistakes again. Like falling into your eyes.
The table in my apartment shivers and shakes with every small movement made on or around it. I’ve tried weighing it strategically with stacks of books in every corner. I’ve tried tightening the bolts. I’ve even contemplated strengthening its legs with uprights. I was so embarrassed having you over for dinner at my shaky table; how all my furniture has become metaphors for my unstable life. But how it all balanced itself; how I had nothing to fear; how your presence obliviates my perception of the world around you.
The first high school dance, a summer’s night, so many years ago. So far back, so far below. We talked and you disappeared. Oh Red, where’d you go that night? Three years later, and you take me home through a new summer’s day, through eden-like gardens, to sit behind you sitting at your piano, where you open my heart as the sky becomes my every dream materialized.
Innuendos. So many innuendos. We tried the bed. Now we lie on the floor.
She made a circle of tealights, heating the room one tiny flame at a time. Was it execution? Was it seduction? The ritual is blurred. I’m lying down, there’s no weight but the weight of the world. There’s no sight but the sight of this girl. And she’s breathing me in.
My poster says you keep me under your spell. It’s not lying. It’s not lying. Not like we are.
So often do I wonder about my existence, about what I am and what reason there is for my being. I’m in near constant doubt about what matters and what doesn’t when trying to find the core. There are so many layers to peel off, but how soon have you peeled off one too many? When do I end up accidentally letting go of something that is inherently me? I doubt. I wonder and I doubt. Until nights like this where I gaze up at a perfect sky and am reminded of the solidarity of the universe. How everything is energy and matter. How we’re all just atoms. And so I tilt my head back and look at my brother who is the Northern Star, and I blow a kiss to sister Moon. For we’re all in this together. We’re all emitting light and breaking waves. We’re the sound and the fury. We’re everything that ever was and ever will be. We’re just constellations, stellar and grounded. And we will change in shape and form, but always will we stay energy and matter. Yes, like the stars I am a bundle of energy moving through time and space one life-form at a time, but unlike them I was imagined into existence. I was thought of and then created. Without the imagining, my form right now would not be human. And that, I believe, is the great plague of all human kind. To know that we’re nothing but energy and matter, yet knowing that we, unlike the rest of the universe, were imagined into existence – we have a creator in a different sense than the stars, the trees, the oceans and the black that surrounds and lives in everything do. With our level of imagining and planning we even have a creator in a different sense than our fellow animals on this here planet. And then how can you be just energy and matter when you know you were created? Don’t we create with a purpose? Isn’t our judgment of our creation dependant on how well it lives up to our expectations? And isn’t that the most scary thing in the world; knowing that we are those creations – and some of us those creators. Doesn’t that make us so much more than energy and matter? I love the universe and I respect it. But I do wish it had been created with a purpose. It seems so silly that we should stand here, hand in hand, so little energy and matter between the two of us, and yet you matter more than all the stars on the sky. Even with all the light they bring into our lives, it wouldn’t be losing them, but losing you, that would forever darken my nights.
I think my greatest challenge is knowing the real world from the one inside my head. Not as in I can’t tell the difference between being awake and dreaming, or as in thinking everything is completely different from how it really is. It’s smaller things like knowing to be present in the real world, paying attention to the things there instead of just listening to how things “ought to” play out if it were my imagination that dictated how the world should go about its business.
I’ve talked about one side of this before, my planning out how a text-conversation should go. How I’m always 2-5-20 messages ahead, only to be tumbled over when the first response is not even near what I expected. I’m like that in many aspects of life – spending so much time thinking about future what-if’s instead of paying attention to what’s happening in the now.
I can’t pretend
I don’t need to defend
some part of me
(Interpol: The New) The most obvious problem with this is (not) knowing how other people feel – especially about me. I tend to think that, if I have a crush on someone, that person is equally crushing on me. If I’m in love with someone, that someone is also in love with me. Of course, when I look at it like this, it’s ever so clear that I’m bound to find myself in situations where that theory just doesn’t live up to the real world. But at times – most times, I suppose – I forget to think rationally about these things.
I think my mind just craves cosmos. There are so many things in this world that I don’t understand. So many things that just don’t fit together, and I think that’s why my mind hopes that this one part, this oh so important part of life, would just be easy. Would just be straight forward. I love you, you love me. It’s convinced that you can’t fall for someone who isn’t going to fall for you, ’cause that’s just outright chaos, and there’s already too much of that around.
People often say that I surprise them, simply because I’m an introvert and don’t talk a whole lot (when it’s not on text), so they gradually find out things about me. I think this is the one thing, though, that no one can really grasp. I mean, I’ve tried to tell one or two of my friends, but I don’t think they understood just quite how different my perception can really be compared to the real world in these matters.
It’s not just that I find it strange, find it unfair, see it as very poor design when I can love you but you can’t love me. It’s that I really, honestly, don’t understand it. Not in the narcissism-way that I think I’m just so wonderful you shouldn’t be able to resist. My mind just can’t get around the fact that this isn’t a question of cosmos<>chaos, but a question of the human mind.
But I’ve realized that it’s a problem now, and I sincerely hope I can do something about it because it’s killing me, and I fear it’s going to drive you away from me. That’s the last thing I’d ever want. I’ve always talked highly about the abilities of the human mind, and said I could overcome anything. Well, now’s the time to buckle up and prove it. Now’s the time for me to rearrange my mind and not lose myself in the process.
I just never go to sleep at all,
and I stand,
shaking in my doorway like a sentinel,
bracing like the bow upon a ship,
and fully abandoning
any thought of anywhere
Sometimes I can almost feel the power.
And I do love you.
Is it only timing,
that has made it such a dark hour,
only ever chiming out,
My heart, I wear you down, I know.
Gotta think straight,
keep a clean plate;
keep from wearing down.
If I lose my head,
just where am I going to lay it?
(Joanna Newsom: In California) Perhaps I should stop watching movies. I always attach my own life to the fictive story-lines, and expect the real world to turn out as its counterpart on the screen. But then I should probably also give up books, and then I would probably end up having to give up music as well. So that’s not the way.
I just need to get myself to understand, and that has to start today.
I’m crushing hard on anything Johnny Jewel at the moment.
I love what he does with sounds. Many people would probably say he creates images. I’m sure he does, I’ve just never been that great at getting images out of music, or books for that matter. But I love his sounds. How he can create the darkest places I know of, and then lighten them up – making me feel like that was supposed to happen all along, though I had no hope of it just a few seconds earlier. He just.. he feels the music, and it seems like he feels what the listener is thinking all along, much more than most other musicians, which enables him to go in the right directions at any time, while still being more than capable of surprising.
He’s perfect for nights like this. When my rhythm is on some other planet and I never sleep. Because I can’t take more sleeping. Because I’ve been sleeping all my life.
I’m perfect on nights like this. This is when my mind gets going, and I can finally get myself to do all the things I have only thought of doing during the day. Writing some poetry for myself, trying to teach myself how to play guitar, reading, answering the girl, and not taking care of my cellphone that ran out of power a couple of hours ago. Though I absolutely have to power it up tomorrow when I wake up. Expecting a text from Adrian.
Expectations, they’ve always killed me, and only more so when I stopped having them.
Twooneeight is what WordPress offered to call my post before I could come up with a name, well, 218. But it kinda sounds like a party way of saying ‘tonight’, so that’ll do.
One of these days I will absolutely have to post the first picture to this blog. I still can’t figure out why I haven’t done it yet, except, obviously, for that one time where I just couldn’t get the picture uploader to work. That was one of my weaker moments, I realize.
We always have to go, I realize.
Always have to say goodbye.
Always have to go back to real lives.
But real lives are the reason why
we want to live another life.
We want to feel another time.
(The Cure, Out of This World) Just popped into my head. Such a great song from such an underrated album. Still can’t believe I saw The Cure at Roskilde this year. That was a dream come true, as has happened quite often for me over the last years. Finally living part of the dream, instead of just living in one.
But that’s not to say I’m done being a dreamer, just because I’ve all of a sudden got my mind back together. I don’t think I’ll ever lose that. It’s such a big part of me, to foresee every great outcome of my future, and discard all bad ones even before they take form. This is probably why I’m so ill prepared for most things that happen to me, given that this world rarely offers the perfect outcome. I think most people tend to make plans, and having some sort of back-up plan, should stuff go wrong.
I don’t even have a plan, I just have some vague dreams, not taking me anywhere.
If I should go somewhere, be it travel, be it ‘in life’… I just don’t know where. I’m still madly hooked on going to Paris, to have another expectation crushed. I’d love to get on with my ‘love life’, if I ever had one. And I do believe I’m about ready to continue school, well, university. Fancy. Philosophy, Greek.
If there is a better major than philosophy, do let me know. To me, it’s the perfect choice. I can spend a lot of time reading stuff I actually find interesting, and I can have either ALL possibilities or none afterwards. Depending on what I do with it. If I so please, I can get to teach philosophy, which is probably my true call.
Actually, I think it is. I’ve felt a slight hint of this ever since I first considered philosophy, but now I see it makes sense. There are so many things I would like to discuss, but people only ever listen to you if you have some fancy degree.
It’s Wednesday now.. I remember when I was younger and in school, I would lie awake at night, hoping the next day wouldn’t start if I never fell asleep. One of two things would normally happen, 1) I’d fall asleep and the next day would start when I woke up, 2) I’d stay awake, and live in denial the next day.
I watched Drive for the first time today (yesterday), and then again today (today). I don’t know why I never watched it before, but my oh my, it sure is a great movie. Ryan Gosling is such an amazing actor. He inspires me more than most other people. Whenever I act, I catch myself doing something I picked up from Gosling and I try to snap out of it, but it has just become a part of me.
Like Symmetry is starting to become part of me (the Johnny Jewel love). Themes For An Imaginary Film is taking me over. I can feel it pretty clearly. My mind is drifting from the writing to the music.
We don’t even know each other,
We only know of one another.
You, hardly of me.
Me, dreaming of you and me.
My problem in my English writings these days are the rhymes. I can’t stop trying to come up with them, even though I’m sick of it.
To hell with my imagination!
To hell with all that is loving, loved or love!
To hell with the injustice, but more so the justice that gives hope to the unfortunate!
To heavens with all that was once considered power, strength or weaponry!
For there is no place less likely for man to ever get.