odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
This is not my story but I would like to live vicariously. Half a lifelong romance: a quiet, solitary one would be nice, one of idealisms and happy ghosts. Instead, all you do is run around in circles, reaffirming the hedgehog’s dilemma until bone finally rattles against bone. This is not an uncommon phenomenon, however. The people who raised you also grew up blaming each other.
Alternatively, the universe is so much easier to love. It is a common cliche: ridiculous allure in the mysterious, dark, and brooding. Your first crush was a cumulonimbus at dusk. You next fell for the idea of how galaxies died. Being fickle, you then found beauty in the depths of a soundless deep sea, oversaturated with bioluminescent flora. But there is no happiness in any of that. For the sake of convenience, you might as well just point to a nearby shrub and designate that as your God. But my conscience tells me loving things instead of people is escapism. A gentle rejection of responsibility, similar to the way people around you reject pineapples on pizza. But habit is not the reason why you substituted nihilism for absurdism. Don’t go dyin’ in a stranger’s apartment somewhere now, you’re gonna have to carry that weight. i. The texture of rope in this tug-of-war dictates my idiosyncrasies. Half a year has gone by now, but I sometimes still let the hardened flax dig into my skin so they may form calluses already. A worthy distraction, but I was raised sheltered. Summers spent in a small corner of the bedroom where pixelations mimicked a delicate script. They took me to obligatory vows before I learned how to reason properly.
ii. I think about a hurricane somewhere. It drowns the fishermen to feed the fish. There is grace in the way their bodies were dragged from shore—a gentle maneuver on whose part? It is a shame I already knew how to swim. iii. A list of things that are not romanticized in memory: ambient music that does not complement the mood, a slow disregard for unsanitary windowsills, a stupid water boiler. iv. I’m probably crueler than you think. Even my mother tells me this. The same waves wash over me and I am no longer interested in your stories. Pillow talk is how you reveal your insecurities, but neither of us were kind listeners. Tonight, there must be some other incentive to dream: the promise of another mindless summer, a lack of jurisdiction for our depraved vagaries. There is an easier way to settle into this image, but the neighbors do not stop whispering sweet somethings. |
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July 2019
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