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mood |
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"i'll wait up in the dark |
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music |
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for you to speak to me, i'll open up; release me" |
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“If you're not real, Joanna,” she says, “then nothing is.” I laugh in cool detachment, how mistaken she’s been. Rather, beloved sunshine, if I am real than everything is some deviation, derivative of some alienation of some perversion. But my loyalty to you is immutable nonetheless. This friendship is freedom and unconditional embracing for both of us. We move in and out of huddled spaces and share hands, kisses, blood, pearl earrings, humiliation, regret, hope, faith (but only thanks to each other). Tonight we’re celebrating the end of such a cold winter and we want to feel at one with the beautiful girls, the toxic girls, who are clammering in the washroom and smug when one of our friends shrieks 'Come on, it’s been 10 minutes, pee and do your fucking line later, girls!' But we cringe because we know this, too, cannot last, and will soon turn ugly as did the last clutch. Tomorrow summer awaits with languid relief. You're in love and I'm leaving on a mission. I want it all, maybe even more than you do, or am more bitterly malcontent with its absence.
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I've been clawing and running for so long, been fighting these frontlines with everything. Now that day peers in like poison gas I turn over to unravel, gaping from the wounds of another night's thrashing. I face my only eternity and only truly beloved monster, cooing in awe as I let him take me with ruthless desire where it hurts and falling to grisly bloat as we wither both.
I want a life that transforms air and mud, to push as hard as it pushes me and hear faint symphonies lacing along every divine breath. I want a now that is perplexed and absorbed in rose-strewn labyrinths. I don't believe in Heaven; cannot, despite grateful partiality, because in my most immoral, most incidental mortal existence I have already peered into it, as I have into Hell and cannot imagine anything larger than the tumult and bliss of earthly life. I am ready, and praying, to tremble with the same awe as thunder's, to feel the tremor of the whole universe reverberating in my heartstrings. I will stand in the summoning pressure of an August dusk, grow wilfully in pounding rain with courage and expansive graciousness.
I want to wake up to reverence of the body that mobilizes my Self and not to be remorsefully reminded of a tattered enjoinment, as though it were a parasitic Siamese twin coercing my heart with malice. I want to stand inside and cry at the clouds, to own this sorrow and be no longer muted by it.
I am living for truth and relentlessly clenching its apparitions until it bleeds. You'll find me vaporizing with lightness on Fascination Street in a Manchester fog, or beaming sweet chemical auras behind a dollface in the ritz of 80s peach taffeta. I fell in love with Montreal, this paved island on the St. Lawrence, for its seedy stains and unapologetic hunkering after a flourishing decade, for its delightfully tribal dysfunction amongst cheeky graffiti, each year subsumed in glacial cold and then melting to bare naked frenzy. I dream of senescent castles in Hungary, enchanted forests, emerald reveries with hazel potency and in private my eyes to sear all the way to Lake Fertő where they weep gentle tears, float in silent nothingness, and speckle toads, trees, and tides with golden ripeness.
Narcissus drowned in his reflection, never managing to become free of his masochistic ego. I want to wade softly into that fathomless lake and let it dissolve me, break free from the impenetrable straitjackets of these 21 waxing and waning years, or lurk peacefully amongst the elements, gradually transformed with benevolent passivity.
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