Πέμπτη, 24 Ιανουαρίου 2013

young love waits at the window

I’m bored so I decide to stare at the texture of the wall. A wall is not as finite as one might think. Imagining every particle that is enslaved to its function, this wall, this unimportant and highly unexciting wall now is a vast and soulless white sea. But it is just a wall and I just haven’t slept for two days and I have to survive through this, whatever this is, certainly not a decent conversation though because no one is really talking; some heads nodding along, some others probably occupied with even more insignificant thoughts than mine, and the tutor just sighing at our mental incompetence. It’s a big table, we are a generous crowd, and I can almost block the sight of the tutor’s figure with the head of the girl sitting next to me. Her hair is magnificent, black and straight, shiny enough to appear colorless in the light of the sun. She is remarkably pale, even for this climate, and I now remember that she’s from Scandinavia. But that’s not remotely intriguing right now. I experiment with the balance of my head. Yes. I am bored. I turn to the left, right, left; slowly now, I stop. And I am having a tiny panic attack. Or not. I am completely unable to assess my reaction.
Naturally I would have quickly and very much awkwardly turned my head completely to the other direction. But she couldn’t see me staring so I thought I could ponder a little longer. This is rare. Three straight white lines; the two slightly longer than the third one, the one after the other, close together. Dead cold white, like freshly painted wall. White is the color of the dead, the color of the absolute, the color of terror and the color that swallows the sunlight. And quite frankly, the history of those lines makes it disgusting. Her skin wasn’t tan at all but the parts where skinless flesh poured through declared their existence just as effortlessly. In my head, I was screaming; those were cuts. During the following seconds I must have suffered a stroke and several of my brain neurons must have imploded instantly as I couldn’t even decide which of the multiple thoughts that were scratching the insides of my brains for attention I should pursue to shape into logically constructed mental discourses. Did she look like someone who would do that? She was calmly gazing towards the tutor and she was awfully still, her hands resting in front of her on her crossed legs, her left hand gently sinking in the palm of her right hand. I searched her face, urgently, and I could not imagine what she could be hiding. She was hiding something, whether that was herself or her forearm, but she was doing it so well that I never would have guessed what lay under her sleeve and I still could not guess why. They were old though, the lines. Some time must have passed since they were impressed on her skin; the fresh ones have the color of a stale crimson apple. In a twisted way that made it alright. I waited for a twitch, a press of the lips, a look down on the floor. She readjusted her posture and in a movement my eyes missed, her sleeve was all that was there to see once more. The last four minutes or so never happened; they were warped in a whirlwind of too much caffeine, no sleep, and other less noble substances, and I was just seeing what I wanted to see. But no, it was there. They were there.
Throughout the rest of the seminar I kept chasing the end of her sleeve, trying to get a second look at the extraordinary white lines, but as I couldn’t find them I kept thinking, is this what we are? Self-mutilating individuals without convictions? Is this all we are? I doubt this was all we ever wanted to be.
I left that room and didn’t think of it again.

Παρασκευή, 18 Ιανουαρίου 2013

δεν θέλω να μην υπάρχεις στην ζωή μου. δεν είναι όμως ζήτημα επιλογής, είναι?

I’ve gotten high and I have sung along psychedelic songs, shouting and whispering, and I have almost vomited my heart out, and now I lay on my dirty sheets and I cry for loves that are not mine. You are there. Everyone is there. Everyone I can think of that has a share in my tears is now here, and I am no longer alone, I am loved and not alone. Not alone. I am cold, and my cheeks are burning. I am not talking to you, no, I am talking to the universe and I am trying to sing myself to sleep and I rock my body back and forth but that just makes it worse, and I have bugs in my head, worms and tidal waves, jungles, ugly sculptures. But I cannot understand why for a second this feels good, and all feels beautiful and in an unorthodox way peaceful, and all there is now is me, and I don’ feel lost anymore, I am drowning in this weird occurrence of damaged conscience and misguided intentions.
I have had a wonderful day, I laughed and I thought I was whole, because I realized I wanted to wake up tomorrow. And I don’t understand what went wrong. Consequently I shut tighter my eyes, turn on my side and I prepare to pass out; I don’t know what I am crying for. I don’t think I cry properly, this is pathetic, and scary; I don’t cry, I am hyperventilating, and moaning from physical pain, I can actually feel the marrow in my bones twirling and trying to leak out, boiling and then evaporating.

My mind is irreversibly twisted. I can think of him, and then my thoughts will wonder on her, and then everyone I ever knew but never really understood how I got to know them, and that’s torture; I can’t control the neurons in my brain, I can’t think of anything else, we are all ideas in a sealed box trampling down an endless stair, we fall on each other, hit violently the walls of the box and then ricochet again off each other, hold hands and try not to hurt anyone or ourselve. I snap out of this mental nightmare and I realize I am in public; I cannot fold like a piece of paper and hide under a desk. I imagine it’s late, now it’s dark outside and I am alone, or with none of them, and I can do that, I can whimper like I just got injured and suddenly, I feel better. I feel I can react to what is happening to me and I can abolish poison in the form of tears. And then, I go numb.

Πέμπτη, 10 Ιανουαρίου 2013

i will do the adolescent thing, put on my headphones, lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling, listen to the same really old really sad song on repeat for four hours and i am going to cry, i am going to cry for you and hope that i can actually produce some decent tears, and hopefully then i will be able to sleep

Κυριακή, 30 Δεκεμβρίου 2012

she asked me if i was alright and i told her i was, she believed me and we got drunk on awful wine and all kinds of smoke.

i picked up my paper, focused on the beautiful sound of the thunder, balanced my glass on my knee and smoked my cigarette, i thought of you and for half an hour i couldn't get the thought of your hands on me out of my head. i exhaled and went to sleep but i haven't slept for days so i figured i forgot how to shut my eyes properly and just kept on pretending to read.
i became beautiful and i wore my confidence, did my hair and put on lipstick, went out and hoped that if i'm drunk i will be happy, and i might have been, for a minute, but the boy sitting next to me reminded me of you, and every time he talked i had to try too hard to listen.

it is such a cold day today

but everything is still beautiful 
and i convinced myself after inventing some excuses that this is bearable and that the last year of my life hasn't been a vain experiment, and all the blood that is shed is shed for some reason
so i forgave you and you will never know just how

i just want to sleep through new year's eve and new year's day, not realise that i suddenly got somewhat older and try to look the same

i don't know how i am supposed to feel for you anymore