it was supposed to be a manuscript...

mostly late night writing

[landsccape]

[holygraund]

😝😝

[not-a-manuscript]

Down bad

Chasing any glimpse of a good thought that dares to pass through my mind

Latching on a sweet memory of easier times

Getting by

Focusing on counting my breath so I wont loose grip on reality

Psyching myself to believe this wont last forever

"This too shall pass"

Slow burn

Eyes open so I finally get myself back

[not-a-manuscript]

I've got this feeling of finitude creeping in, lingering, every time I find my self… happy? Accomplished, complete. I try my best to not self load and accept that I'm actually worthy of, that I should just enjoy it instead of rationalising it, but it's like I could only have nice things happening if something else that I love is taken away in return. I guess even my thoughts of joy are subject to the capitalist norm, nothing's actually free of charge.

[not-a-manuscript]

The end

I’m there sitting in the passenger seat beside you, silent, brooding, reliving the deepest memories in my head, looking for an unjustifiable mistake, a glimpse of that instant when things between us started to die. When you started to kill me.

I try to look away from your staring at the red light ahead as you light up a cigarette, and the shut window on my right makes me desperate for a way out.

Now I feel the need to come up with a theory that could justify this mess that we created. I created? You’d say so. It’d be a lot easier if I could just not love you.

I wish I could lie to you now, put on a brave face and defy your superiority. But moving my mouth to enunciate the words I’ve summed up seems impossible. I feel weak as I overtake the urge to scream out the frustration that I’ve been feeling for so long. "Why’d you push me away just so you can pull me back again?” - and then you’d laugh it off. I’m sure you find my insecurities entertaining.

In my head I replay the moments you disguised your casual cruelty as confidence, and I fell like I could hurt you, too if only I could open my mouth. In this pipe dream, I’d reveal my most secreted and sordid thoughts, the unacceptable, the appalling, just so you know that I can be as vicious as you. I want to be selfish like you. But then, again you'd find it funny if I did it, me being assertive always amuses you, like some kind of joke. 

You have shaped me throughout the years so swiftly, it’s hard to make up which thoughts are my own. I’m always nice, well behaved because that’s the only way you’d have me. I feel the impending outburst, but I don’t want to give you the satisfaction.

Deep breath and now I prepare myself to calmly tell you about the last few weeks. I sigh as I remember how wonderful it was, even without you around… maybe because of it. Your physical absence made it easier to shut down your presence within me. I had a glimpse of who I used to be before the falling. Until you came back and yet again, I’m no one. 

Although I've got the notion I can’t gather the courage to say it, because I still care about what you think of me. I only know myself through your criticism. 

I feel a brief sense of relieve, for the first time in years I can see the different shades of grey from your impeccable spectrum, I can see your flaws. But as I came to rediscover life outside your rules I fell both happy and sad. I just wish you were better. I wish you had respect for me.

I daydream of this moment, a fraction of time when everything shifts, the planets align, I open my eyes and I’m free of this control you call love.

I draw in the strength to turn my head and face you. Rehearsing the argument that I’ve made up, planning on speaking very calmly like you always do, to lower my voice to your standards, to sound sure and above you, as you do to me. 

At the end I’ll smile because I have a newfound will. And then I'll let you know that the air I need to breathe no longer comes from your lungs and I don’t rely on your lips to tell me how to behave anymore. But mine wont open. I get numb with the fear of no longer having your weight overpowering me.

I hear the once faded sound of music coming from the radio, and I slowly come back from the fantasy, turn my head at you with a grin of acceptance. The traffic light goes green, you step on the gas, the car turns the left corner as you firmly press your right hand on my thigh. Maybe tomorrow. 

[not-a-manuscript]

Henry Miller wrote that the best way to forget a woman is to turn her into literature (hopefully it works for men, too).

[not-a-manuscript]

2007

I miss the 13, I miss Trocadero, I miss Saint John’s Wood gardens, I miss the O2 Centre, I miss Piccadilly, I miss walking thru Oxford St, I miss not shopping at Harrolds, I miss Tesco’s cold pasta, I miss dreaming about Bond St, I miss walks on Hyde up to Regent’s, I miss having dinner at some SoHo restaurant I cant afford, I miss Heaven, Punk, Koko, G-A-Y, I miss crying in public at the National Portrait Gallery, I miss afternoons at the British Museum, I miss both Tates, I miss pool and losing money at some old pub downtown, I miss China Town’s smells, I miss nights in Brixton, I miss walking at night in South London and I miss the fear and the freedom, I even miss the weather.

[not-a-manuscript]

testimonial 

Three months, no contact at all. But there’s an undying remaining shiver over what we had. And everytime I hear that song I go back to that time and I’m right there at that party, physically feeling the touch, breathing heavily, longing for more. It was the last time, and the most desperate one. No one else knows about it. I was about to leave and you never thought we had a chance. It was goodbye and still is.