Up again, we were up again like fruitful mountains reigning over the poor, poor dusty valleys. When Sunday came we turned around and vowed, well, you vowed and I could not un-vow, to never ever again taste each other that same way because it was too difficult when we had to come back down again, down again and love always tasted better in our westward bound-ness, on the road, far, far away from the reality of it, you said.
I could tell I was entering a sort of indeterminate hell and I felt it was quite telling of the times I had embedded myself into, tellingly, and my lips were still tingling from your kisses. Of course, there were glances, so many fucking glances toward the wine glasses that they became my goddamn glaciers. Since when was the last time I was able to be rejected by a lover and not succumb to those damn wine glasses? No, never had I not succumb, and this time would be no different.
I had this bad coping habit, one of many, where I would take these lost lovers and I pretended they were all a part of this European commune that mourned for and celebrated me, I know it doesn’t make much sense, much like how I can’t walk down a sidewalk without pretending the road is an ocean and all the cars are huge, pirate wielding boats coming after me, but the point is don’t ever leave me, because I’m unstable and more importantly perhaps, is don’t ever love me, because when you do I die a little bit. The love will make you bigger, so I get its appeal for you, but see, as you gain strength, I only grow smaller. I’m almost so small now that I don’t even exist, so I’m scheduling time to wander around the real ocean now to gauge the light left in this world, so I can make my assessment as to whether or not the amount of light left is enough to make the darkness worth living through. I’m leaving on the 5th of May, which I will re-name my re-birthday.
Almost the whole day of the first day, of the 5th day of May, my Mayday, my re-birthday, I am going to vow to never eat anything processed in an attempt to clear the dirt, the grub, the hurt, the left-over lovers out of the underpass of my gut and heart and with those wine glasses I plan to drop them off close to the dry valleys for the other lovers to take and to fill and partake in as they make their journeys down from the fruitful mountains and choose to go their separate or maybe not-so-separate ways.
It seems appropriate that at this time of pending change to rename myself, I decide upon “Redwood” as I walk through the open market grabbing a few clean food items for the second and following days of my journey and then I head to the port and down the steps of my boat underneath all the subtly rocking, creaking wood and I let it lull me to sleep, as echoes of singularly-phrased thoughts ring in my head to the tune of “redwood” and “new life” and “last attempt“. It could have made me happy to dream, but happier dreams were escaping, torturing, and taunting my day thoughts as I would see two dollars and think of two people, of you and me. I tried to avoid my bad habits, I tried to stay clean and sober, but they were already in my heart and when I found an old wine bottle on the boat, I fell into my deep, dark well and sang sad songs, and drank the whole, sour bottle and never felt so impossibly good and terrible as I accidentally started my journey on the 4th of May, as accidentally, I sailed away.
It’s impossible to be alone; no man’s land is an ocean with no man, and this is where I’d made my home. That I could have a re-birthing experience and purge all the pain away was all just pretend, I told myself then, I distinctly remembered your smell, and your taste too well that no ocean was vast enough to wash that off of me. “Fair enough?“ No, it’s not fair enough, I’d say in defiant reply to myself, though I was a selfish one that night, with little ability to feel outside of my own beating flesh, which is exactly, I guess, why I beat my flesh. Over and over, as I punched, as I jumped overboard, as I splashed in the cutting waves, in the incredibly cold ocean, as- and then it happened. I began to feel the pain freezing over. It was so incredibly cold. I decided not to die over you and I forced myself over you and that is how I was able to regain myself and in that moment life became bearable again, so I chose to go on, to climb back onto the boat, dry off and sail on.
It took until the first of June to rescue myself completely from the worst of it, but I’ve sailed back into town now and I think that I am doing pretty okay, though I still can’t seem to resist the bottle when it comes to the night and the sad songs and the pouring rain.
I could tell I was entering a sort of indeterminate hell and I felt it was quite telling of the times I had embedded myself into, tellingly, and my lips were still tingling from your kisses. Of course, there were glances, so many fucking glances toward the wine glasses that they became my goddamn glaciers. Since when was the last time I was able to be rejected by a lover and not succumb to those damn wine glasses? No, never had I not succumb, and this time would be no different.
I had this bad coping habit, one of many, where I would take these lost lovers and I pretended they were all a part of this European commune that mourned for and celebrated me, I know it doesn’t make much sense, much like how I can’t walk down a sidewalk without pretending the road is an ocean and all the cars are huge, pirate wielding boats coming after me, but the point is don’t ever leave me, because I’m unstable and more importantly perhaps, is don’t ever love me, because when you do I die a little bit. The love will make you bigger, so I get its appeal for you, but see, as you gain strength, I only grow smaller. I’m almost so small now that I don’t even exist, so I’m scheduling time to wander around the real ocean now to gauge the light left in this world, so I can make my assessment as to whether or not the amount of light left is enough to make the darkness worth living through. I’m leaving on the 5th of May, which I will re-name my re-birthday.
Almost the whole day of the first day, of the 5th day of May, my Mayday, my re-birthday, I am going to vow to never eat anything processed in an attempt to clear the dirt, the grub, the hurt, the left-over lovers out of the underpass of my gut and heart and with those wine glasses I plan to drop them off close to the dry valleys for the other lovers to take and to fill and partake in as they make their journeys down from the fruitful mountains and choose to go their separate or maybe not-so-separate ways.
It seems appropriate that at this time of pending change to rename myself, I decide upon “Redwood” as I walk through the open market grabbing a few clean food items for the second and following days of my journey and then I head to the port and down the steps of my boat underneath all the subtly rocking, creaking wood and I let it lull me to sleep, as echoes of singularly-phrased thoughts ring in my head to the tune of “redwood” and “new life” and “last attempt“. It could have made me happy to dream, but happier dreams were escaping, torturing, and taunting my day thoughts as I would see two dollars and think of two people, of you and me. I tried to avoid my bad habits, I tried to stay clean and sober, but they were already in my heart and when I found an old wine bottle on the boat, I fell into my deep, dark well and sang sad songs, and drank the whole, sour bottle and never felt so impossibly good and terrible as I accidentally started my journey on the 4th of May, as accidentally, I sailed away.
It’s impossible to be alone; no man’s land is an ocean with no man, and this is where I’d made my home. That I could have a re-birthing experience and purge all the pain away was all just pretend, I told myself then, I distinctly remembered your smell, and your taste too well that no ocean was vast enough to wash that off of me. “Fair enough?“ No, it’s not fair enough, I’d say in defiant reply to myself, though I was a selfish one that night, with little ability to feel outside of my own beating flesh, which is exactly, I guess, why I beat my flesh. Over and over, as I punched, as I jumped overboard, as I splashed in the cutting waves, in the incredibly cold ocean, as- and then it happened. I began to feel the pain freezing over. It was so incredibly cold. I decided not to die over you and I forced myself over you and that is how I was able to regain myself and in that moment life became bearable again, so I chose to go on, to climb back onto the boat, dry off and sail on.
It took until the first of June to rescue myself completely from the worst of it, but I’ve sailed back into town now and I think that I am doing pretty okay, though I still can’t seem to resist the bottle when it comes to the night and the sad songs and the pouring rain.
RSS Feed
