“The crepes we’d all eat on the way home. We’d gaze dreamily at a party dress in a shop window. The little things bring such joy and I’m happy.”
Trying to hold back the tears :(
This scene always makes me cry like a baby. :’((((
I unfold your bird wings
from Matturday morning
same doleful tissues,
sadly lead me to banish
your jointed knees,
your mouth uncorked
time after time, desolate calls
why would our whispers flee?
In constant pleas,
but as it was, I adored you
After a bottle of wine the night before
I found delineations in your wrists,
curious mappings, road atlases
to your suitcase soul
and we lay together for six hours
before you toss away
less significant thoughts
Touching invisible webs,
tracing directions for my woeful path
with far too skilled strings
You are halted when you clutch me
moon fingers in my ears
to keep me from hearing
anything but my own
grinding teeth,
this well studied grin
My mind as it gently slides
down your ligaments,
two skeletons with
mushy-spoken nuisances
Under patchwork I feel
your eyelashes on my cheek,
hummingbird miniatures
say more than you ever did,
but never will they chirp
half of what you sang
melodious tales for me alone
don’t tell them what we know
Feathers folded in to keep hearty,
to keep the blood inside
your soft, locked chest
from pouring out too much
bonnie fair
/lane-marie ☂ says:
do you even listen to yourself
i mean, surely, this is all hysterical and funny, and fucking with people is hilarious
but do you even listen to yourself
at the end of the day, do you realise that the only reason why you are lonely (other than me being 6372890947 miles across the ocean) and why people leave you/do not pay mind to you, and why you feel so sad, is because instead of meeting people who are actually worth meeting and speaking with, you just play endlessly with these bitches who mean nothing to you, but who somehow are incredibly stupid
and fall for your little schemes of loveliness, and then they go and they come back, and they go away again, and you mourn about abandoning people and people abanoning you
i mean, really, that is really unhealthy and saddening and it saddens me and angers me and wounds me all at the same time, when i watch you do that
because it is really just saddening and it only worsens your condition
i hate shaving my legs, ugh
/collystrings@hotmail.com says:
why do i even care oh my god i will be alone forever. i will be alone for the rest of my life. i will have no one but you and then with things fall with you and pim dies i will have no one so why do i even exist and why do i even bother to meet people and why do i even bother to speak to people. and you are just like mum at this point, ‘well why don’t you try you can try you can make these things better and you can work at it.’ and i can’t. i need help i need constant reassurance and constant help and to be constantly consoled and constantly loved and cared for and liked. i am too much work and i’m too difficult and picky and sad and no one will ever want that in their life. pim doesn’t and mum doesn’t and cora or cassandra or kristin or alyssa. all the people i’ve liked so much are just sick of me and tired of all of my bullshit and if they aren’t i start to pick up all these things that i dislike about them. and i can’t. ever. be. with. anyone. ever. i can’t have one conversation to you or to pim or to my mother or to my sisters and not upset them.
i see absolutely no point in myself or in anyone else, so why do i waste all of this effort. all i do is waste. i waste ideas and money and people and time, so much time. and i am waste so why does it even matter. i don’t get it.
/lane-marie ☂ says:
*when things
*a waste
the question isn’t why, the question is how long. how long are you capable of doing all of these things until you eventually shut down? because it will happen, and you may not see it coming, but it will. all of this will tire you to the point of really draining you, and you won’t be capable of lifting yourself. i do not mean to sound like your mother, i do not mean to lecture you, to make things seem so easy, or sound so simply attainable.
but i do mean what i say when i tell you it is enough. you should stop all of this, because none of that is going to change the fact that you are sad, and lonely, and alone, and picky, and difficult, and people are horrible, fleeting, common, inferior beings who will never be able to please you nor like you nor care for you like you need them to.
the point isn’t asking yourself why do you exist, while doing all of these things so people might notice you and waste their time back and forth with you. the point isn’t complaining about how much you upset those you ever really liked, when you don’t fight for absolutely no one you say you really liked. and the truth is, you are not afraid of what they’ll say, you are afraid of what they won’t say, of what they won’t be able to do and of what they cannot be, in order to fascinate you, in order to keep you from disliking them, from growing bored of them, from wanting something new.
and you aren’t frightened of this half as much as you are of losing absolute control and instead of trying to collect people, you begin harming them so that you can feel less and less heavy inside.
and as much as you say nobody would ever want you in their lives, because you are this awful little creature, who people will pace away from regardless of being interested or fond of at the very start, as much as you say that, i will always want you in my life, and with me, and i don’t know why i can’t or how i can change that, because i honestly tried to force such thoughts in my head during january, only they did not function, and my mind would not accept them, and i cried for days in a row, and i didn’t even muster a pitiful, pretentious little curve in my mouth, because i couldn’t bear with the fact that i was this horrible little seed, that people first are attracted to and then repulsed by, and that i loved another disgraceful little seed like me, and how i couldn’t abandon you no matter if you shouted with wide lungs and distasteful fury that you did not want me in your life, and that i was absolutely despicable, and that you hated me. that thought consumed me for months because i thought you would, and i didn’t know what to do, because i could never leave you, whether you asked me to or not, whether you had left me or not.
and even if you are a waste of a human, a waste of breath and life, know that i am just another waste, and if we can be a waste together then that shall be terrific. but you have to accept that people will not like us, and they will not try to pretend they do or approach us at times, and they will grow tired of our games and our words and our loveliness and our minds and our complexities and our puzzling thoughts and our self-involved stanzas and our stupid songs and our incoherent emotions. they will, and they will dislike us instead of wanting to be more like us, of wanting to learn and grow close like before, and they won’t need us anymore, and they have only acted as much so we could be theirs.
and you have to accept that these people would not watch us die nor die for us, on the contrary pim would die for you, and so would i, and even if it takes a long while until we find more of our kind, we must accept that sailing against the wind isn’t a good option for us. our kind is a dying breed, theresa, and there is nothing you can do that will change that, or change who you are and what you are. if you want to be somebody else, something else, somewhere new, then go for it, and please do not warn me, just go and do what you must to fit in with people who can adore you and want you and braid your hair and sit by your side, eager to listen to you, eager to be adored back by you. if you cannot take this much pressure, this anxiousness, then go, and be somebody that people will appreciate and care for, and keep as something lovely.
but see, if you do that, then i can no longer be lane, lane, the window pane, and you can no longer be yourself, and you will sacrifice your life for people who will not feel a quarter of what you feel, who will not desire a penny of what you aspire, who will not share anything with you, not even the slightest thinkings of yours, and you will do this so that loneliness and self-loathing do not kill you.
and i know, i know how unbearable it is to have everybody sailing further away from you, even if you didn’t mean to send them away, even if you really liked a few of them. i know how it is when you cannot say anything to alter events, because you are so stuck in the whole composition of how you even managed to send them away, that you cannot see anything else, you get caught up in the atrocity of your actions, in what you wish to be, in what people are holding you back from becoming, in the places you would like to go, and while you plan, and plan, and plan, you lose track of what you really should be concerned about, because of meticulous details that should not be planned so beforehand, since they always manage to be ruined.
i live in both the past and the future with you, and i am quite good at it, shit, i am really good at it, yet i know we must endure the present. and i know that walking alone is an insanity-driven trigger, that as much as we tell ourselves we are fine being alone, we are not, for we need a constant presence in our lives. i know that living in the present while we want the past and the future, aches brutally.
but theresa, theresa, we cannot lose ourselves amidst this wreckage. we cannot just collapse and say ‘i am tired, i no longer wish to try, nobody wants me, nobody loves me, i will never amount to anything and i am better off dead.’ we can’t do that, we just can’t do that because then we will be wasting so much more than what our lives will ever mean.
i am not telling you to push yourself forward and battle against your nature, to fight away the insecurities, and the shyness, and the reluctancy, and the doubtfulness, and the unease. i am only begging you to please let me fight mine by your side, so that perhaps we can calm yours down a little, and you can face them slowly, with the years, with time, no need to rush. i am only asking you to please not look down on what is gone as something far beyond the past, as something that you can’t revert back. please don’t engulf yourself in your realisations for this year, and patch it all up together, and obstinate your head against your heart, so that everything makes a little more sense, so that you can live knowing that both people and opportunities have parted.
and please, jesus christ, i know i cannot be your constant reassurance, but let me at least be something that will stop you from clinging to this dreadful habit of fussing and toying around with meaningless people. because that will only depress and disappoint you in the end, and i don’t want you to disappoint yourself.
i, too, need constant reassurance. i will lie in that couch for hours in the morning, just wondering, what if i never knew you, and what if i were anybody else. because my god, it is so difficult to live my life the way i chose to live it. i could live this life i was given quite easily, but i am not who i should be, i am what i am, and it is most difficult this way, and i break down so often because i cannot even think of what i will do if i am left in this world just like this, just an inadequate lunatic fuck, with no traced fate nor aligned future reserved for her.
and i am so much more needy, so much more frail and idiotic than you, in every aspect. i need immense amounts of reassurance, which i rarely am ever delivered, and all of the positive thoughts shatter in front of me, and i can’t help but fall from time to time, and compose myself minutes later. because it is so awful, because i only have you, and it is so awful.
but i know that you are much more vulnerable and frightened than me, so i am always trying to keep my desire to live alive, so that i will not collapse before you.
i promised i would not let you die, and i won’t, i won’t, and i will have this world knowing your name.
but please, theresa, if you lose your will to live, who will amount to nothing in this world and exist as a pathetic fuck will be me, until loneliness and sadness assassinate me, it will be me. because i lack all of the good-willed, good-spirited, graceful, kind, sweet little lovely things that you still preserve. i lack so much purity, and so much hope, that i can only pick up if you are here.
you perhaps think you would drive yourself ill and finish it before anybody could lock you up and forbid you from harming yourself, but you would not. you would not, as you have already written, if something were to happen and we were to be separated for life, you would do your things, and sing in your soul, and do your readings, your learnings, and go to paris, and study, and find a decent little place to live, and meet at least another interesting individual to add to your life, and you would eventually conform with this, and gather enough courage and will and loveliness to survive, and you would forget me, and you would forget matthew, and kristin, and everybody, and you would have a life, and i would pray every day for your happiness.
but i would not. i would not, because i want all of these things, and i refuse to live any other way than the way i want it to be. and if it does not go this way, i will do this and that, just a few souvenirs, for the memories, and i will take my life with me and forget myself. i will. so do not tell me that you cannot do this, that you are sad and alone and difficult and awful and that nobody wants you and nobody will ever like you, and you will be unimportant and miserable forever, because that is not true and that will not be that forever. i want you and i like you a lot, and you are the most important thing to me, above myself, and i care not for how inhuman and hollow and awful you are, in fact, i hope you grow further more awful, because you are only human when it comes to the truth and purity of things, and that is admirable, and that is good, you are a good soul, and you are an awful person, and i don’t care what you are, or what i am, or who we love, or who we’ll be, or where we’ll be. i just need you to wait two more years and be sad and lonely and awful and miserable with me. because then, things will turn around more than what you can imagine, and even, perhaps, want.
and that is that.
now, go shave your legs or something, why are you even listening to me, you have school tomorrow.
*or how i can change that
ugh what even are my fingers
*in my mouth
am i serious
*doubtfulness
god, what the
/collystrings@hotmail.com says:
i’ve read everything at the least four times but i have to go because my mum is home and we argued last night and i still have a lot to do. and i’m not sure if i’ll be around tomorrow, or thursday, or friday. but sunday i should be back for sure with twenty-seven photographs. but just know that i love you a lot and you are the finest thing in my life and we will live in all of those beautiful places and meet and read and see and hear lots of beautiful things.
and i know you’ve heard this before, maybe, but listen. because i like it a lot.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMhMi5f3JD8
and i found these and then i smiled so please look at these as well.
http://s1199.photobucket.com/albums/aa463/phosphorescencecitylights/trumpets/?action=view¤t=90ceb76d52f717f0ccf78c05fecbdaa0.gif
http://s1199.photobucket.com/albums/aa463/phosphorescencecitylights/trumpets/?action=view¤t=19a1f85af20134fc1dc05efe8789db6c.gif
you have to go to bed, too, you know that.
and sleep late and warm and open your windows and fall asleep saying your favourite word and count twenty-seven cracks and we will be ok.
/lane-marie ☂ said (03:38):
Mm, it is alright. Do not upset her right now, just go to your room and finish your work, and then resume to bed. I am not positive if I will be around Thursday because I have bass-lesson (every Monday and Thursday), but Angelica said she would tag along with me and Jimmy that night, so that makes it another speed-dating event to attend, and I will be exhausted by Friday. I also need to memorise my schedule, which was delivered this afternoon, and I have yet to tell you about it, and shop for schooling, and shop for biscuits and Nutella and peanut butter and chocolate and milk and other things. So tomorrow, I might just start my Potta’ readings all over, hopefully you will, too, and watch some films. We needn’t be around. I suggest we sometimes skip being around.
I will buy one of those Kodak little loves, I will, and twenty seven photographs will be taken.
/lane-marie ☂ said (03:40):
Guess which tune I’ma fall asleep to? Yes, exactly. c:
I absolutely adore that song.
Finally, a directory to your albums, woman.
/lane-marie ☂ said (03:41):
Yes, yes, I know that, thank you, but speaking to you matters more, and it feels good to be the one who stays behind, watching you go to bed, for once or twice.
Actually, it feels like shit, but nyeh, can’t all be on you, correct?
/lane-marie ☂ said (03:43):
I will sleep late, and warm, and have moar toast with milk upon awaking, and open my windows, and sit on the window-sill and pick up my books from the window pane, and pray to Sydney and Harrison that they never get wet, and I will say my favourite words repeatedly both tonight and tomorrow, and so will you. c:
Yanno’, there are five exact cracks in my room. I am tempted to make another.
Sleep well, Toni-boo.
.O.
HIATUS FOREVER. Lane and Rose and their meaningful lives will keep the highest magic somewhere else. This was a make-up festival, a celebration, a little sucre.
Nao, it will hold the secondary account for SAILOR MOON. And that’s it, gents.
Have a wonderful Summer! C:
I was always late
You, never afraid
That we could be falling
All our friends would say
That maybe we should wait,
But they can’t see what’s coming
And to this day
When everything breaks,
You are the anchor that holds me
And that is why we’ll always make it
How I know your face,
All the ways you move
You come in, I can read you
You’re my favourite book
All the things you say,
The way you shift your eyes
I never knew there was someone to make me come alive
When the days are long
And the thunder with the storm
Can always get me crying
Well, you can make my bed
I’ll fall into it
Shadowed but not lonely
‘Cos I never knew a home
Until I found your hands
And when I’m withered
You come to me, you’re my best friend
And that is why we’ll always make it
How I know your face,
All the ways you move
You come in, I can read you
You’re my favourite book
All the things you say,
The way you shift your eyes
I never knew there was someone to make me come alive
And when we’re making love,
I give everything up for your touch
How I know your face,
All the ways you move
You come in, I can read you
You’re my favourite book
All the things you say,
The way you shift your eyes
I never knew there was someone to make me come alive
And when you go to work,
All the day I wait
For you to come home
Recount our time
In our little place
Our little place
Our little place
Our little place
Our little place
Our little place
I am going to write the both of you letters, for every day that has passed or has yet to visit us. That must mean I have to write at least five per hour, if I’d like to enjoy some of the things left in life for me. But then again, what other things? All I do is insistingly correlated to the impertinence that I cannot do whatsoever without fixating my thoughts on you. Call them what you’d like, I call them treats, juicy bits, to remind myself you’re both well. Is it unkind of me to put my being through such grief? Is it silly to toss the decent things I should welcome and crave for their sisters, gruesome and wild? Is it folly? I will write every day. I know not how I’ll send them, if I’ll send them, if you’d want them, but I will write them regardless. This may be a diversion so that I am allowed to be tormented, in shambles, distressed, cracked, for as long as there is no reply. That is the vanity of the writers, and also the wit. They would not dare to sentence you for sitting by the window, waiting, doing nothing but excusing yourself with musings and thinkings and feelings within the soul. They would pity you, for waiting, for carrying the burden to linger by a thread, between both devotion and madness, upon a letter. It is clever to expect a reply. I write despite one might not come, ever, and can still give myself the luxury to wait. I think I’ll write. I think you’d reply, and show these needs. I think that’s a good way to prevent others from misjudging our selfishness. My hair fades to brown in the summer, and I’ll never understand why is it that I maul its capital in such a constant drift of ideas, there and about, there and about. I rather love the golden rays it gains when bathed in sunlight, filtered or opalescent, humid or grotesque. I find light very inquisitive. I know not why this is, or the sincere colour of my eyes. Is there a fictional name you would like to offer them? I never know much. It is perhaps the fact that I am so fickle and proud, that creatures as serene and innocent such as little insects tend to enervate me. I feel so very lonesome compared to them, so very dirty, guilty, stained with the shivers of loss and faults of cowardice towards happiness. They know not how lucky they are, free to wander and to fly, carelessly minding us not, bothering only with their lives. No one knows much these days. This easily explains why an interior garden, hosting butterflies and pretty rhapsodies of the likes would not leave me comfortable. I think I’ll bear, though, bare and poor, in silk or cotton at the edge of the mattress, looking for no other but a single ladybug. A woman once told me they were rosy by young leaves. I’ll search for a few and pick out the tiniest button, keep it where I feel its presence near. And I’ll learn the harp before the bass, listen to the strings like I have only listened to the solitude in the keys. And I’ll write, for every night that wasn’t lived like it should, and every lure not sung the way I could. I’m thinking prose, but somehow it discords, and creates unknown lyricism to me. I’ll say what can’t be said even in words of wisdom and affair, what we’ve only dreamed but never sent it out as a dream, to each other, to one another, to share. I’ll say what floats and stays unclear, I will, I’ll speak like I have not yet to you. Would you like to write back to me, this Summer, too? And to those who might miscarry my intentions from friend to foe, let me tell you, it is neither a love letter from one desolate lass to a fortunate lad, nor is it a sweet induced gossip in the hands of mistresses. It is a letter meant for whatever causes the heartbeat to accelerate, the breath to pace much too quickly, and the bones to fail as your senses flee to palpitations. I know not the culprit, but I am familiar with where he lies. I hope to lock arms with said gent someday. I hope to confess my woes to him, and warn his excellence to hasten the pilgrimage to my adorations. As you know, the price to pay for desire is higher than the heights you’d like to believe your wings can lift you to. Or, do you?
I’d be a yellow feathered loon for you, baby, be a German shepherd on the moon for you, baby, be a granulated spoon for you, baby, I’d be a camper in a photograph for you. Then when the sun has set, romantic times have passed, and our conversations are a bore, I’ll become a different man, so you can get to know me again. I’d be a rubberbanded flute for you, baby, be an union parachute for you, baby, be a baby that’s a mute for you, baby, I’d be an insecurity in a Tibetan’s head for you. I’d be a uniform on an imbecile for you, if you want me to die trying, I will die to please you. I’d be a pepper-minted rook for you, baby, be an unhappy organ donor’s book for you, baby, be a straw covered in scum and gook for you, baby, I’d be a wrestler in a tuxedo shirt for you, I’d be an antacid with a brown wig on for you
♥
感傷的なたわごと!♡
私達の赤い糸を誓うリングは、今見えない。 約束がないが、…私達の結合された手を放してはいけない。 それが真実なら、I’ llだけは悲しい。 これのように、私の信頼間。私達がこわれても、私の記憶はあなたの結束を消さない。 私で信頼するか? 私が私の指先とたどる星、権利を見ることができるか? 私の目を避けることなしで、私ははじめて言う。 私の目に反映する1才である。私は私があなたが付いているこの危ない世界を克服してもいいことだけを私の信頼信じる。私達の別の空を訪問する夜明けの中では、私で信頼するか?
夢では、私達は正しく、幾度もいつも会っても、いいか~?
この大きい全世界を越えて、だれも誰かをそう愛した。
私は、私愛する、私愛する、私愛する、私愛する、私愛する愛する。
私のそう菓子、そう菓子、そう菓子、私の貴重へいくらかの砂糖である。
私は確信していて、私達は他の多くの橋歩き、外国の壁に対して私達の背部との重力の衝突、および動揺させるテンポで速度を計る私達のレースと異なった木の下で私達自身を見つけ、不快な草に置き、立ち向かう不慣れな花弁をころぶ数える。
私達は中間失ったにおいを確認し、視力にちょうど非難されるかもしれない従って奇妙私達は崇拝について考えることができない。
しかし私を言うこれを許可しなさい。 私達の頭部の上の空は起こるかもしれない変更にもかかわらず決して、逃げない。 青は同じをとどまり、私は、私見つけることをどこでも行く誓う。
私は家連れて来る。 あなたおよび私は不運ではない。
そして私達がいかににもかかわらず終わるか、私達は、常に、常に、一緒に常にある。 私にそれが他のどの方法もない。 私が選ばなければならなかったらそれは常にである。 これを知っている、が、決して思い出させるあまりではないことを私は考える。
私は誰でもがほしいと思わない。
知っている、私はマットが暖かい壁をそう覚えていることを考えることを望む。 私はダグラスが床に落ちたチョコレートを覚えていることを考えることを望む。 私は私達があるためにそれらを望むので事を覚えるためにそれが穏やかであることを考える。 私は彼らが余りに私達を心から覚えることを望むことを考える。 私はあなたをよい世話する。 私達は良い、私は約束する。
月への月から、!
車線の& 永久にローズ!
私達は無限である。
HOHOHO.
I realised that I don’t post anything but photos on this tumblr, and I honestly don’t like making text posts because I’m afraid that no one will like them. To resolve that, I’ve made a ~personal tumblr~.
I’ll just be posting relevance, and little stirrings of my days, and photos that are pretty and mean something to me. I think I’ll also cancel my ask on this account, and switch it to that one, so everyone can ask me things there instead.
Feel free to follow, and if you would like to, you can do that here. :3
Remember what you told me, Marsie.
People may steal what they would like, take, smell it, feel it, but it won’t be half as good as our feelings.
‘Member?
C:
Nao, mi scusi.
I want to feast on boxed cheesy po-tat-oz.
<9.
Protecting this from ever disappearing. .Q.
<6.
- I have realised that recently, as soon as supper is finished and I am back upstairs, I am quick to change my status to away, or furthermore, leave. I will turn down any conversation offer, I will decline any amusement invitation, I will not pay attention to people, I will not reply, I will not tend to them. I will be kind, but I will be quiet. I don’t do much but loaf around and wait for you. I think that is satisfactory. I get things done. I can focus. I follow my schedule and actually list every task down. I am far more organised. I am always witty in the evening. I sit pretty and wait. I think that is mandatory, but I— I really like it. I like loafing around waiting for you. I have never realised this before, however it is neither surprising nor new to me, as it would be an ordinary thing to do for me, disregarding all the rest. It’s just that, there are more positive aspects in my life. More positive perspectives, positive points of view, positive ponders, positive checkers. I am fond of the calm you bring. I am however fonder of the positive little retouches you have on me. And I thank you for it, for I feel much better and much healthier ever since the twenty-ninth of March. ‘Tis not only hope you give me, ‘tis the feeling of something secure, safe, protected, and real. Back then, we used to say we were high up above where no one could touch us; when in fact, we did want people to reach us. Now, we are indeed unreachable. We needn’t pretend we want to be alone, we needn’t explain ourselves to them, we needn’t smile and nod at the floor, whilst something vague takes us away from ourselves. We found a better high than that, and that is how we are much too pristine to be weakened by the malice of others, the rudeness, the jealously, the incessant attempt to please and thieve, the faltering doubt, the frightening might of the past. We are the real dangerous people in here, because we have been damaged, and yet we know how to survive. Not that this is a bad thing, because I— I believe in us. I believe in our moderation, our balance, our understandings, our toleration, our patience, our purpose. I do, I truly do. And I have to thank you, always, for the faith you and I have restored in ourselves. It’s not that it hasn’t been there, it’s due to a likely matter of shine. Do you not feel your own light more glistening than ever, now? I know I do. I know mine is, and I know who to be grateful for. It is true that if I hadn’t fought for us, for you, for this, we wouldn’t have mended the present and bandaged our lungs tied by strings so frail, and tacky, such as wires. I am aware that our best trait beside the many impressive and quite unique definitions, is the way with words. Strings such as wires should not be a complication, an issue, a barrier to us— we, who can communicate and comprehend one another so well; sometimes, by pure instinct. Do you feel me, Arienette? I know I can feel you most of the time. I think that perhaps we are carried away a little too much, so that we get lost in the details of life, and lose what we ought to love. And then, we become acquaintanced with defeat, and mourning; attached to a mellow emotion we call nostalgia. Say, do we find comfort in misery? Do we need to be miserable, so we can find our inspiration and motive to carry on, a squint film moral, a tragic lyrical pick-up line, a sea chanty of sorts? That song hasn’t left my mind ever since the day I lied lump, damp, and paralysed, in the couch, with a buffoon of pillows covering the chaos of self-pity and stubborn selfishness. Ever since I began to understand that I— I simply, casually, easily, traded his liquor for your elixir. If you were blood, you would be running wild, coloured blue and dehydrating every cell of my body. Sitting beside him was starting to lay its rusty, old marks on me. I was not healing, nor curing as I thought I was. I was aging, and greying; becoming blind to my own escape into a more reassuring, and less troublesome, end. Do we really need this much comfort? Are we so desperate for a warmth that cannot be provided to us by those we claim to adore? Are we, Arienette? I became deaf to my very own pleas for help, for guidance throughout the wreckage that was the season of the endless time. I convinced myself that was the fantasy I could provide my soul, to ease the pains, to smoothly erase the mistakes of the Spring. I felt like a criminal, removing every other trace left of my crime. Rushing into something that was not, and could not, be exact or vindicated. Something existent. It was until I realised that— I am lying, only in this lazy afternoon I did, while returning home from schooling; mouth agape during my journey and all requited empathy of sudden realisation. You were lovely, and brilliant, and to me, you were tender. You graced me with a subtle spark, a gentle hint of magic and surreal misadventures about the outer-space that was your mind. Minds, see. As you told me, as you told him, we are connected by our minds. What if you could tell precisely what I am now thinking of so promptly? That would be convenient, now wouldn’t it? You— You were my white, my anchor, my parachute. You gave me strength, showed me light, bathed me in youth and scintillant reminders of our plans for the future. I knew I had little time left of the so-called freedom during that Summer, and I thought best, well— I mean, you see— I thought, why not, we should just forget everything and screw men? Not as in, sexually, of course, but instead, forget. Let them go, yes? So that I could devote the remains of my precious hourglass tickings to you. That is friendship, is it not? That is what you would call, a memorable and respectable friendship. It may not sound appropriate but I daresay, affair? We have an amicable affair, do we not? It’s not an affair, and it’s most definitively not the typical half-assed rehearsed friendship, written across the stars, the fairytales up north, and those scales in between. It’s a chain of need, like gold, and snow. It’s a glowing artifact of nature. It’s a masterpiece. And I— I would not, I could not, give this away, not even for the sweetest victory in the universe. So, can we— can we also make history, along with music? Because I do believe, you are the only person I could have, sitting by my side, not wishing to change places or company, for the many lifetimes I have ahead of me. I love you, I do. At this point, I can honestly say, I cannot live without you.
♥
P.S. I very accidentally found myself writing Arienette instead of Antoniette. Since I approved of it, I wrote it a second time.
