She exhaled her darkness like constellations.
Let Her Go_
She exhaled her darkness like constellations.
Let Her Go_
It’s been a year of the moons. New moons, full moons, bare slivers of moon carefully showing herself as I walked home to my apartment in the LES. I understand fully that I was born from the moon and that my soul is very, very old. Not only have I lived a thousands lives, but I understand that my past self is quietly showing herself to me now in the present text. I am humbled and peaceful feeling my soul live underneath the skies of today, but I am very unrelaxed knowing that I can’t have everything I want.
This is good though. This is the heart of spirituality, or so I tell myself day in and day out. I must let people go in order to rectify my past. I must not possess anything including arbitrary items and the more resounding notions that canopy love. I have to let go. Simple as that.
And yet when I get stoned with you and we are able to look at each other resting our eyes inches away from each other’s face, I see how important it was that you came back to me in this life. How our souls found each other once again and now, in my moment of fight or flight, I know I have to let it be. I have to let you go off into the world and try life the way you believe is your moral responsibility. And as for me, I know I need to go see the world and how people live in it apart from the very comfortable and socially-regulated world was I born into.
While I am very grateful and humbled that I have been given this chance, and while I recognize that I live in a free and modernized World that structures itself through democracy and not religious-obligations, I understand my search has only begun still. It is now my life’s duty to figure out what I am meant to do in order to be a better person and do better for the happiness of others; to fix my past by being the person I know I can be.
By this, I realize I am graciously declining coming to your house and blowing the lid off the pot. I must quietly swallow the burdens life has given me, be completely thankful that I met you again in this life, and then pray that how we kiss is never forgotten in the thousand lives we are meant to live together.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that if I let go of us in this life and let us figure out what we should be doing apart from being together, maybe in our next lives (or even down the line in this one), we will have been able to figure out what went wrong but why we were blessed with our final opportunity to make it right. To be together as nature and the moon always intended.
So tragic yet so beautiful…
such is life
I have no real care to explain things to you. You’ve already slashed my heart by just threatening your sharp edge against my skin; mocking me as you pressed harder, just enough to leave an imprint. But you are the one who will leave with real scars. The kind that read in the wrinkles that have creased around your eyes. When your hair is gray and your belief is long gone.
I’m not saying I won’t have some of that either, but at least I know I tried – in my last awkward and maybe even feeble attempt – to lay it all out on the line for you. I left myself vulnerable and uncomfortable to look you in the eyes. It’s such a shame. But really, it’s the biggest lesson I’ll ever have experienced in regards to going after love when you know the moment is fleeting. Insurmountable speed has erased our time, and now all I have is the present to get through while clinging to my hope in tomorrow.
So I’ll quietly eat my feelings and desires. I will leave before I have to see anything transpire, proving that this really happened. And when I’m gone and have a view of a thousand setting suns, I will understand that my place in the world has always been right where my feet are planted.
Don’t look for me when I’m gone. I’m not broken Zula.
This song is in perfect condition. The kind of condition you’d want to find your newly salvaged Craigslist record player; minty with usage and dusty with treble. I can’t grip the words for this sound because it’s just being. Even if it’s version of ‘being’ is a grand ole ploy to get you to throw your hands in the air and call it quits. Or quitting the constant denial.
Some people are happy, and then others seem to be constantly sad. And there are the lunatics who have a collision of emotions banging against their rib cage pleading to be let go. A deep, aggressive pounding wanting discovery and invention. Sex and money. Problem-solving and sincere problem-arson.
Seems some of us are addicted to the heat.
They always said Grateful Dead’s “American Beauty” was the album that could change the way you thought. Actually alter the spectrum in which your mind actively behaved. Dismantling the normal thought process and smashing it into a tiny million pieces. And while I’m not the person who will begin to compare such legends of an era to a newwave, chillwave, semi-dance/trance music – Twin Shadow and their song Forget – I can still physically and mentally understand how the two are so alike on their separate, infinite musical planes.
Forget by Twin Shadow alters my mind, albeit how NORML-Y enhanced it is and was experiencing. I literally would nestle myself in all the dreamy analogies this song would allow. It’d be like waking up on your best pillow scented by your favorite man. The kind of nighttime slumber song we listen to on our heels atop my bed, stoned and singing as the night drifts into our dreams.
Street lights stretched like mosaics, wetted and shiny from the musty rain as the car bladed serenely down Astor Place. Light rockets ricocheted in the sky, fanning from the center of an ostentatious missele who’s destiny was death by explosion. A screaming fell in Sinclair’s lap as she gripped the edge of the car seat with her clammy hands, teetering from the views of pedestrians and drunk fools and her own reflection shaded in the glassy, drop-covered window. If she squinted hard enough she could make out the profile of her driver and his one-handed grip on the wheel, but she needn’t look; she could feel his energy like a bomb had been set off. A hurricane on the cusp of crashing on a coastline. The moment of chaos as something starts to fall from your hands but you are too slow to catch it. All that friction and constant, whispering harassment of two binary energies colliding into one monumental combustion was enough to set off a multi-car build up had it not been for a strong grip handling the wheel of the four door Nisan. A pleasant sense of urgency finally landed the perfect parking spot hidden streets away from their destination – enough time to kill a few friendly fires that had been brewing for weeks now inside the walls of the place they studied. Studied lessons and terms, graded but only on an alphabetical scale. What had been neglected in the schooling systems was how to grade the lessons that fell in-between the gridded lines and margins, except in this bullshit life all that seemed to matter was grading percentages and not the real, what-will-matter-in-your-final-days kind of stuff.
Just as her distinct brevity in societal bullshit was about to come into clear focus her hand was swept into the larger palm of her driver, tensed and firm. She sat there stone silent but cringing in every part of her body that could feel, and she felt all over. The car had been parked. Sinclair had been lost in her momentary daydream that she’d completely forgotten the bar they were supposed to be meeting his brother at. Over-swept by a pang of guilt for the sudden forgetfulness of her boyfriend who’d gone back home to visit his college friends, her face was pulled and turned and her lips parted by his tongue. A wet lick against her bottom lip softened by the cushioned padding of his mouth sucking around her throbbing lower lip. He stayed planted for a while, gently pulling as if to insinuate what else he would be doing later when they were alone in her room and clothes had come undone, perhaps her underwear dangling like fringe off one of her feet as his head stayed deeply buried in the soft curtains and folds of what she’d been purposely keeping from him. And as she contemplated all that was and was going to be, she gripped a handful of hair from the back of his head and pulled him in closer letting her tongue toy with him inside his slightly parted mouth.
You’re not mad at me, are you? I don’t know, you just seem like you’re acting weird. Look, how am I supposed to have an answer for you. I try the best way I know how. I’m realistic.
Today was the first day my house felt like home.
New York felt like my cushion that sort of props me up in bed. I was able to just sit and chill with some music and a friend. She was talking about music and girls she thought were soo beautiful. We had pasta and ate well in high spirits. I was thinking about that time at b’s that we finally did it but the door was open and your friend was sort of putting his shoes on in the other room. The craziest chills I got from you slightly putting it in before having to pull out really quickly before your friend saw us. You know we didn’t leave on bad terms. No one had said a serious “fuck off” yet in a screaming match. We only ever did that when we wanted to play with each other, me more than you.
Look. I’m into you. I really like you. I want to pick up right where we left off and just keep going in that direction. And I want to have ten thousand more memories with you so that I’ll have an actual number to count to so that this time I can figure something out before our time runs out. I would too. I’d choose you over everything else if I knew how bad I’d actually be hurting with you not here. This isn’t just like, “oh, he’s gone, that really sucks.” It’s more of a you’re not here so how many different ways can I try to make myself forget. And forgetting is harder than just admitting that I can’t really keep this up much longer.
It’s been some time now and you’re still heavy on my mind. Every time I ask you if you feel this too, you tell me I think too much. And then I feel like I did something wrong while feeling shitty about the person I am. And it makes me not like you as much because I’m not sure if you will ever just let me think without shaking your overwhelmed head. That’s important to me, you know. And I’m fucking sick of saying, “Well, your happiness is all that matters to me.” What lesson am I trying to preach this time? And to who? It’s pulling at me left and right, actually tearing me down this seam deep in my chest that physically thumps when I think about you being happy with someone else, scarier, without me.
I feel like I should mention that the other night I had this dream about your ex-girlfriend. She was playing this old vintage film from a projector on the side of her house, not recognizing that everyone on the street could see. Basically that scene from Problem Child if you even know the reference. But the film she had on was pictures of all my two best friends as she and her bitchy girlfriend laughed and pointed. And then my picture scrolled across the wall and she laughed harder just as you were walking into the room. And you sort of rolled your eyes and told her to turn it off as you set a tray of food down for them. And it didn’t matter to your ex that you had told her to cut the shit because she knew that in a few minutes tensions would settle and she’d be able to snuggle up in the nook where your chin and neck meet. And this dream has turned into an entire day’s nightmare, one that didn’t frighten me as much as shake my insides. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day long.
What we had was from another planet, so why are we just letting it go? I made you smile more in a day than in the past few months of your life. It was like finding out that you were born under a lunar eclipse the day I called you a moonperson. Or how about the night I met you, catching a bouquet and walking into a bar that I’d already written off. That wasn’t where we were supposed to meet, you know? We were there on accident, or purpose with poor planning. Because we never did get our chance to tear eachother apart while we were still in it. And now all we’re doing is at picking at the scab of what could’ve been. But I’m not mad at you. I’ll stop worrying about why you’re treating me like this because I know it’s easier to be mean to the people we care about, but can’t be with. I’ll take all of your whiplash until you’ve run out. Maybe then I’ll have enough in me to entirely forgive you.
How come musicians are some of the worst dancers? They create the entire show. Actors and actresses in costumes pretending to move that way naturally. It seems a little forced considering no one who warrants attention actually seeks it. It’s just a natural phasing.
And why are we awkwardly linked to people we accidentally become best friends with. Like hey! It’s orientation week and I have no friends, so I’ll cling to you because you also are friendless. Then we pair off inseparably for a two week span before finding our more realistic click, trying hard to forget the former bond just to erase the embarrassment.
Too many people I do this one too. I’ll figure them all out before actually meeting them – see them around, listen to them speak while in the same class, trying to not look in their emerald eyes when I see them in person even though I’ve seen like ten-thousand pictures on my computer. It’s weird how we live. Because then you meet these enigmas in real-life and they usually sort of suck. But it’s hard to really forgive yourself for thinking they were something greater than their reality.
Sometimes I think about why I like lace too. Lace feels best on my breasts. Every slight movement in lace makes for a caressing, faint massage. Especially in sensitive regions, it can be quite pleasurable. I like to dress up for myself sometimes. Wear my raciest underwear to a mundane work day, sometimes even to the gym. I like pretending I’m a lot of things, but maybe I need to start understanding that I’m not playing house – maybe this is my real life and my real mannerisms.
I once saw a video of myself and it was at first intimidating because I was talking to a fake audience at my camera. But I kept replaying the video because I really liked dissecting my lips and my decanting slur that I realized, maybe I just like myself.
And I do. Enough to know when to give what you are given. Thus, cleaning out a rusted refrigerator, sharing the dinner I then made, while beforehand, smoking up my roommates. Something had to give, and it was me.
Feel good always even if you’re chorus isn’t as wordless but as pointless as can be. At least you’re free.