#longwalkonabeach

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St Ludmila

Made this a while ago

The halo is made from marloboro light packs and casablanca tobacco packs

The woman in the picture is a Czech actress Lída Baarová, who in order to preserve her career collaborated with the Germans during ww2

I presume the irony isnt lost on you

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Just wanted to share.

And maybe add that it’s made from book covers. Yes, I’m that much of a horrible person.

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No one’s love might patch the abyss

I might never find a person to shelter me in their arms, not the way wet flowering field in a heatwave would. No one to dry my tears but the crisp breeze of blue spring morning. Not a soul to tell my secrets to but to the deep onyx night, not an eye to wink at me but the flickering Sirius of the winter sky. I will forever wait for Orion, right by the mailbox ad you will never write, but Orion will show up, time and time again.

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To every fanfiction writer everywhere for all of time: what you’re doing is touching someone’s heart, somewhere, at some point. That’s the most important thing, even if you feel like you’re just whispering into void and your voice is just swallowed by nothingness, never reaching any destination. You’re not invisible, you’re only making invisible waves: they’re called sound and it will resonate with someone, somewhere, for sure.

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Sometimes I find myself floating in space. As if the area I occupy was a desolate bubble, the world outside is beyond the thinnest film I can’t seem to reach through. I need a needle but have a blunt axe instead. The film stretches and thins, but never bursts.

It’s weirdly comforting, this sense of feeling out of place, I’ve grown to know it well by now. And what happens sometimes is that the film shrinks, covers me like a body suit, hugging me gently and I manage to contact the outside. But damn is it hard, it’s like wearing eye-wear wihout prescription, you try your best to find the glasses that fit you best, but you’re always slightly off.

That’s the feeling I suppose. Feeling a bit off, always and every time. Milisecond ahead, the bell chimes a moment too early before the sun hits noon.

I feel unfit to enter society.

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It’s hard to find a connection. It happens so rarely I catch myself forgetting it’s even a possibility.

Connection is such a funny thing, isn’t it? It usually appears out of a sudden, like a rain at night. Quiet, still gives way to drizzle, and then it rains, pours.

I’ve been seeking connection since forever. Lots of errors, mistakes, on the other part, on mine, loads of bad timing, inability to express what remained veiled deep within. And afterall, after all rejections, fall outs, growing apart, heartbreaks and fuck-ups, afterall - it’s still what I want the most.

To be viewed, like an exponate at the museum. Studied, analyzed, observed under microscope, prodded and searched, listened to, heard, comprehended fully.

And goodness, have I been unlucky. I’m not exactly an optimist, world doesn’t seem inviting to me. It’s sheer, vast, unwelcoming, terrifying and haunting in it’s size, seemingly expanding with velocity equal to my learning. The more you know, the more magnificently scary things seem.

I believe I’m not suit for connection. Even if I’m dying without it. It’s as if there’s something deep inside I can’t seem to reach, unplug, take out and wine and dine.

I want to serve you myself like I’m the most luxurious meal your mouth has ever known. I want you to take your silveware and dissect me, take out the bones to enjoy the fragile white fish filet.

But I digress.

This meal is growing cold.

Why won’t I connect? Why do I always find you, you rare and exceptional one, why don’t you want this meal? How do I tempt you? The arrangement is imperfect at best, I know, but we’ve both eaten worse, haven’t we? There aren’t many spices you can add, this meal is perfected and done, cooked already. Why don’t you even want a taste? Or is it possible that the very sight is enough?

At least taste me. Let me surprise you. Have me packed for take out. Are you listening or are the small champaigne bubbles stealing your attention?

I wish I was in your stomach, digested by your inside, not rotting away in wilderness.

Cut me up, chew me, digest me, allow me to enter your bloodstream, travel to your heart, let me beat with you, see what you see, breathe your air, resonate in your ears, circulate around your brain.

Please.

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What if you fall asleep and never wake up until you die?

What if staying alive doesn't concern your body at all, what if it means sustaining your soul, keeping it perceptive and receptive, keeping it open to the world, never averting your eyes, never closing them to sleep, even in the deepest slumber, crying at the horrors and crying at the beauties, laughing at the ironies, staying true, openly caring, protecting what's important, what's right, never bending your back under the foot of the others, never stepping inside a grave because others want to bury you, always rising from the dead, over and over, even in the face of adversity and epochal obstacles, facing the east while others are busy watching the sunset, gazing up when everyone's view remains limited to eye-level, seeing the beauty in the ugly, seeing the shadows on the face of a time-stopping beauty, living the fleeting, cherishing the everlasting, never allowing the past to pass, never burying those monuments of history, staying in touch with your past you's, never forgetting the people you once knew, never letting go of the things that made you, looking as far as your eyes allow you, fearing and awaiting.

What if it's simply never letting the world kill you; always persevering always frank and joyous forever tragic forever seeking and searching never fulfilled never quite satisfied never quite there always chasing until you can't one day;

never dying inside until the outside can't no more?

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WIP

Baudelaire inspired