Water collects; unknown access to a future that for now is bundled up in blueness.
Water sits; for days on end. Secrets change and an inevitable impasse of thoughts descend.
Water rolls; through thoughts that cannot be controlled, thoughts that should not be uttered out loud.
What is contained will soon not be and so for the longest of times I’ve wanted to disappear, into this tarpaulin skin, destitute ruin of everything. To dissolve our image.
Protected, protecting all that matters underneath. This, once tight and beautifully adhered to plastic, now jutted and dumped upon by something so tragic. Perpetual ruin of aesthetic admiration meaning that once, once there was a time when all of this mattered. Drenched in purple, bruised in red. Rejection.
Misdemeanours accrue and here I am left staring at the blue. Up and around and sometimes even looking down.
A shelter, a cover, a furrowed brow at something other. Penetration. When is enough too much and have I told you that for however long I’ve known you, I’ve been lost.
Lured by the tipping point from distillation to imagination, this is something else today. Defined by imbalance. Galloping headfirst between chaos and control. What even is enough? Something fuller, brighter, exponential power pulses through and I’m leaving. Leaving us, leaving you, leaving memories stained in blue. When I return will I feel new?
Dissolved in black coffee; leaky yearning. Revelling in ritual abstraction.
Pumped up, lumpy discombobulation of an expectation to be something better, rather than just being. That within this menial existence, I’m not special. There is no fucking special, only inconsequential reasoning at a thing. To possess, to pedestal, to have, to hold in defiance. Without end, fluid intent.
An island rests inland, in the middle, towards the centre, evaporating the answer. Fear oozes from every orifice. Sweaty apparitions of a life half lived.
I don’t remember not being able to disappear before. And yet, here I am again in this crazed aporia. Midflow, midway, in between this and maybe that. Escape impossible, contrived containment.
And the body knows, it predicts, it manhandles and it just exists. There is no one rule for pleasure it seems, when the darkness comes and it’s only me that can hold on, only me that can hold on to all of this dripping, loathing, roaming in dogmatic silence. Woozy delight at intoxicated violence.
There are days when all the colours intimidate, hedonistic dreamscapes, when the brightness calls and only a ladder awaits. Descending into the unknown yet again. A certain inability to determine reality. To play, to laugh, to roam around those delightful paths. And on certain days, those days I vow to never leave behind that self. Gentle creature.
A limitation, an edge, a seam, or an unravelling thread around love. A masquerade that lures togetherness to an end. Inhabiting finality. Wrap it around for all to see, destitute longing of falling. Falling into me. Identified by the madness, the sadness, the rasping haphazardness. And then nothing.
Starting again because that’s what we do. Rebirth of anticipation. Here within abstraction I utilise the very same protocols to stimulate observation, internal introspection. Alone within idolatry. This imaginary self is a paradox of glee. In this moment I am who I want to be, so that whatever follows means that the muscle housing my mind is a memory. Dragging behind for all to see.
There is no rest within agitation. Reliving that moment on repeat so that it can only be seen as some sort of romantic defeat. Enmeshed in erasure; chameleonic lament of departure.
This skin contains and yet, it doesn’t, leaking once more to return to neutral. Inevitable, impossible, artificial paradise produced by every single vice known. Possession towards desire exaggerating an individual. And all at once co-dependent transcendence no longer a possibility.
A rug ripped out and all I can think about is what you did for me.