Memories are strange things; one ticket for the private screening of my life. That is, what i can remember of it. The funny thing is i will remember the best and the worst but the mundane things, the things that make up the bits in between, i won’t. I won’t remember having spaghetti on the 23rd of august, or the face of that boy i once kissed; their lips along with their name become a blur, just as that night has. It’s strange how a faded memory in my eyes is the most remembered night from another’s. It’s strange how i can think back to some nights, almost as if i am there once more. It’s strange how now, today, may not even become a memory to be forgotten; too mundane to maintain in the jumble of memories that remain inside this head of mine. It is strange.
Lust is a women dressed in red
Lust is a bed with no more than sheets
Lust is the notion that love is not real
Or it is
But it does not last
And we’ve both had our fair share of shattered glass
While picking up the pieces we confuse glass with chocolate
And we’re soon surrounded by pools of crimson
We start to bandage over old wounds
And we see people walking around with not even a single bruise
We wonder how it is possible
Then we realise; feelings are left on the shore while bodies ride the waves
Lust is not love,
But it does not end in the carving of caves in our hearts
As love so often used to.
We left our hearts at the door
Leaving only the beat to enter
Not wanting anymore than what’s led out for us in the sheets
As we grasp onto this night of heat
While the sickly sweet taste of naivety tarrs our lungs
Coating the vile taste of reality
Hearts held apart at arms length
But mouths are discovering new lands
And they’re liking the taste of the freshly cut grass.
I want to tell you to live for the sky when it’s painted salmon and lilac.
I want to tell you to live for the smell of toast and freshly ground coffee in the morning.
I want to tell you to live for waking up with the sun in your eyes and forgetting where you are.
And i want to believe it,
I really want to,
But i can’t convince you when i’m trying to myself.
I question why we need a reason at all;
Why can’t we just live to be?
But even i don’t believe that
And i don’t think you do either,
As much as i’d love to,
As much as i’d love to be content as who i am,
And who this world is,
As humans we should want to survive,
Right? Isn’t that how it works?
So why is it that me and you, and so many others want so badly the opposite?
Okay, maybe not so much the opposite but a reason;
A reasonable reason,
And if the only viable suggestion that we can think of is living for another;
I don’t want my only justification of being alive to be dependent on love and being loved.
Because everything is god damn temporary,
And no one’s going to be there forever.
So what happens when they leave?
Time to sink into the black abyss of my mind,
I’m being dragged down by the weight of the anchor strapped to my feet,
What once started as the needle has become the hay stack,
Towering over everything i do,
Focussing on what i lack,
Pulling me down until i can’t remember what came before;
Itching me to i claw the inside of my brain.
I float on the surface of the ice cold cool blue,
My ears are muffled,
As if the water has become the captain to my ship,
Controlling what i can hear
And if i sink deeper; what i can feel.
But i relax because i know that i won’t float or sink forever,
I might end up on the shore disguised as the tide
And walk along the sand to find a jungle by my side so lively that even the birds cower.
One that is so alive that it towers over me and i try to do the same,
One that muffles my mind with a single breath.
A sea that was once blue is now just replaced by one of green.
But i will relax because i know i won’t be walking in this foreseen jungle until the end of time;
I worry that if the water that resides inside my ears,
That muffles the world so well,
Will refuse to set sail when the gales arrive
Or when i land in that dock i’ve been dreaming of since i’ve floated in both blue and green,
The same dock that i know i will feel safe in it’s embrace,
Holding me close,
Loving and looking after my helm for the duration of my stay.
Now i will start to worry;
I will worry because for the first time since i set sail i won’t be invariably looking out of my crow’s nest,
I will worry because i will be blind to the storms that so clearly brew above me,
But most of all i will worry because i will be happy with my stay in this dreamy dock of mine.
The point is,
Everything is temporary and it’s fucking drowning me.
Sometimes i think about how different things could have been,
Between you and me,
Or how i see the stars shine,
Or how the possibility of looking into someone’s eyes,
And feeling so alive i forget how to breathe is not one so far fetched.
Sometimes i wonder what it was like a thousand years ago,
Or two thousand,
Or even sometimes three.
I wonder about how when they looked up at the stars they would see the same Orion’s belt as me;
Surprisingly still neatly fitting around his waist,
Maybe he’s had it loosened because surely he hasn’t kept on top of his dietary plan for millennia.
Sometimes i think about how people think;
About me and how they see the world,
But everyone’s so different how could i know?
But i try;
As if i’m clay free to mold in a pottery stand,
They come with their harsh hands,
Moulding me into who they want me to be and i agree because to be wanted is top priority,
I stand my ground,
Asking to be heard,
Asking for my opinion to be taken into consideration but sometimes i want nothing but to be anchored to the warmth of my duvet and to the comfort of my bed,
Anchored so tightly like a sunken ship not even found by schools of fish playing too deep,
To be held not by a person but by the tranquility of certainty in my own head.
I want to climb between the cracks of buildings and stand on top of the world,
Watch it spin by as i look into your eyes,
And forget how to breathe.
I want to carve away at the sculpture that is my mind,
And I want to sand the tree of my body;
I want leave and be forgotten,
I want to redecorate.
So i find water and plaster to sculpt late at night,
And i pick a new tree from the forest in the forgotten garden of my mind.
Running hands over wet clay,
Feeling the rough texture of wood in my palms,
I say to myself i won’t be the same
But hands fall into the usual routine,
Leaving the scars and bumps that have always been seen,
And the memories that are ingrained into my brain;
And i became the same person i’ve always been.
So i paint my body
With colours so bright the world would be jealous
Colours so bright that the sun tries to touch with it’s rays
The clay still looks the same except it doesn’t,
The scars and bumps still remain but they’re now shining in the sunrays.
The thing about paint is that it leaves room for mistakes.
Except i can’t paint my mind with colours as bright,
And as much as i’d like to, memories can’t be forgotten,
And i’m running out of paint;
Too busy concentrating on the parts that are in sight,
I’m left with only black and blue
And what’s the point of painting if it’ll just look the same as it used to?
The mold might leak through the cracks one day
But i painted so thick that it should stay,
But if it doesn’t,
I hope i have a new coat to keep me warm through the winter.