I can’t blame you, if I’m in love with the taste of being wasted. The utterly balanced delicate bite of the bitterness inside, with the rising bile, being shattered and glorious just comes naturally- it’s my style, I suppose, to be gasping, and blue, and asphyxiating on words I dare not tell you. Claw at my eyes and feel my throat wrench, as I force myself to swallow, as my stomach clenches. Rug burn, heartburn, cigarette burns, consterning, do the stars leave holes behind in the sky where they’re burning? Or maybe, that’s the price you have to pay, to be a thing of beauty, you have to blaze away.
And there you have it. That’s what we are. You are beauty, I am the destruction, and we are just as beautiful together, at a distance, as the stars.
Hi guys. I seem to return only to apologize, but I suppose life is all consuming that way. I’ve been very busy with some classes. The odd thing is, writing articles in class eats up a lot of my ‘word’ energy, and whatever creativity I have to burn, I seem to burn in short pieces these days. So I have been posting tiny write ups on Instagram. I’m at @calliopes_lyre. The other advantage on that platform is that I can occasionally go live on Instagram, which I can’t do here. So find me there, and I’ll find you- we have much to talk about.
Rock, and stone, and hill. The first step I take, into the air- I know this air. The first step I take, onto the ground- and I know this ground. This salt, this earth, this dry, cracked dust, this is what I learnt to stand in. This parched sky is what i took my first breath to. This tract of land, shunned and forgotten, is what I walked out of, the last truly happy days my childlike mind would know. This is the ocean, that let me sail away. This is the shore, that brought me back. And every night, where I sailed the restless seas of the night in the ship my dreams builds, I’d come home to rest.
No, my country. I am coming back to you- but I was never away…
If I knew any better, I’d see you starry eyed.
Instead of laughing at your wit and sharing our mutual disparagement of an abundance of topics, instead of reading your work out loud in my head as I know you do mine, and having the full satisfaction of understanding as much as being understood, of being as hopeless and defeated a romantic as me- of being as defeated by your own intellect and perception as me- instead of the realization of these things, if only I had wonder instead, I could love you. I would love you. I would love you with the potency of our singleminded writing, the intensity of furrowed brows stringing words in breathing sequence, in the light of quiet sunsets of two people who understand- god, who understand! I could love you- I could!
If only I could.
I look at you, as you look at me. Two people who should but are plainly not meant to be. We stand on two neighboring shores, you chasing your ocean and me, drowning in mine. We hold hands in our solitude, both alone together, with love to find, and love to divine.
Symphonies and melodies. Crescendos awash, the shores of my mind are inundated in the salty spray of your laughter. It is not kind. You are… not kind today. But you are always beautiful, the kind of beautiful that blots out the sun and makes the moon shamefacedly turn away. And you smile, so sweet that the music playing around us reduces to much white noise. The world except the space between us, is undefined space. The few inches between our hands, an expectant canvas. I inch my hesitant fingers, stained with hopeful colors, forward to you. Dare I mark you, the way you’ve already marked me? I almost do. I almost touch you- but you do not let me begin my masterpiece. You laugh, and the images come crashing down, and you return my broken fingers to me.
I hear glass tinkling, and you chuckling sardonically. I hear my happiness. The rest is just so much white noise.