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
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.
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.
I’ve slowed down on dreaming as of late. My visions are still filled with thoughts of grandeur, but I notice still my pace has fallen back. I think about my day-to-day and I now read more articles than books. I dream of living on a beach and still I fantasize, but even my thoughts of sex are slimmer. And I don’t like this/agree with it whatsoever.
And it’s because I have a job – and I like it very much and I love that it is in Manhattan. But this city never fucking sleeps and either do I. So I stay up late and roll into work just on time. My game face is on from there. Be it talking with clients, casually flirting, or pretending to solve very minuscule problems considering how many problems can my position really face?
So my visionary list of to-do’s and want-to-do’s must begin again. Here goes nothing.
Dreaming, running, creating, drawing, screenprinting, traveling, getting lost in fashion and music, shadows, children’s books, water and rafting, sledding, nudity, rooftops and bikinis, stretching, hot steam, slow breathing, massages, blowjobs, growing, smoking, photos, climaxing, holistic treatments, writing, searching for adventure, barhopping, getting into travel and food, new prospects, employment with friends, tattoos, big plans, big eyes, falsies, trying new toys and treatments, scar tissue building and shedding, recycling old favorites, new men in bed, finding women to kiss, trailing on never-ending dreams.
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.
I long to see you in the morning light.
Whatever colors you have… in your mind. dum dum dum
I had it all figured out with you. Cut you off cold-turkey. Quick and the most painless. But something crept in late at night as I laid dreaming, looking at the stars outside my window. I longed to see you underneath them on some gritty terrain, fossilized by the whirling nightly winds and swooshing waves as she sang her lullabies. She softened my hardend shell and let me rest my shoulders. My neck relaxed and my fingers tingled out of their numbness. The blood was rushing back to my arms and legs and I began to feel your presence. I wanted to smile and bounce on my toes as I drifted through the day. I was warmer towards all walks of people, thinking of others before myself. I wanted to hum every second because silence was too mundane. And you were full of color and blushing scents.
And I remembered just why I couldn’t keep you out. When I was with you it was broken down into seconds, like time was opening it’s house to us. And when I talked to you by phone your voice was just enough to keep me waiting until I could see you. And now that my time with you has to be shared with things that are out of our reach, it makes those warmest memories something bitter. A cold chill comes and I want to shout at you because I don’t know the next time I can hear you, let alone see you… And my instant reaction is to block you out so I don’t have to feel. But I want to feel, especially the goodness you always offer. Why leave that great attraction and mutual enjoyment outside in the frozen? You can be all good things to me even if I can never keep you.
I guess it’s safe for me to admit, that I rather keep a piece of you even if it can never be the whole of you. And a piece, while small, can fill up more voids than with you gone.
And I like smiling. After all is said and done, I’m happy just doing whatever it is that keeps me dreaming, believing, fantasizing, lusting, and making me float.
I’m a bit drunk. No — wait — very. I watched four hours of Sports Center only to witness the deplorable defeat our Giants took, shaking off the loss with their chins glued to their chest’s while the Saint’s marched off looking hotter than hell in their tight, black uniforms. And I sink deeper because the beer is settling in my system as is this terribly addictive song. I am just unmarked by it’s repetitiveness. It’s been the constant soundtrack for my morning and nightly rituals, and even then, it is remarkably soothing after ten thousand plays.
I like the lyrics. I like the steady melancholy that sifts through. My gratitude falls in the fact that men can write and sing words that I personally believe persons with the Y chromosome are incapable of even thinking. But wait. Maybe I’m jaded and bitter, scuffed by love since my first taste of scorn. Maybe it’s not even love that gets to me as much as all the bullshit that entails a good thing just having to end. There isn’t any other reason despite a deadline, and even that deadline is arbitrary when considering all the new adventures that are just on the horizon for me. But I guess you can’t rationalize a chemistry that was unwanted from the start, yet surprisingly even to you, receptively felt strongly towards the end. And just like the song implies, love, lust, and like are tricky toys. They constantly prick at you trying to get under your skin. And if you’re anything like this pile of incertitude, guaranteed you too would want to kick any unnerving feelings down a flight of stairs.
So, my Giants lost. Their season is just Ehh. They shake it off well after every hit and neck-breaking blow. Yet they are remembered for winning the superbowl with one of the most famous plays in Superbowl history thanks to Eli Manning having a stroke of luck on one of his better days. And they are still glorified by their fans who act more like friends full of conviction and pride. And I guess love, lust, and like is all relatively the same. You get hit and smacked, constantly ripped to the ground after an ultimate score, and eventually you pick yourself back up and brush the dirt off your shoulders.
It’s just a game after all. There is always an end. Win or lose.