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     “You’re gorgeous, beautiful;” I’m screaming “ET CETERA” at you with symbols crashing and clashing in desperate collision roaring for the end of repetition war.

     Divided from the aesthetic of the concept, I want someone I can send special lyrics, peculiar poems, and scientific excerpts to with received appreciation. A thoughtful response from the heart every now and then would be a dream ideal real, but mostly I enjoy the silence of wonder and magnified magnificence of the being.

♠

     When people respond to the conversation starting question with, “I would want to read minds,” I conceive it laughable. I’m close to saying that it’s immature. However, with thought more elaborate I decide it’s likely a characteristic of someone who would rather live free of reining wonder.

     My conclusion rests on their fear of the unknown until I recall the following: I am petrified of the unknown to the scar of madness, yet I would hardly thirst to contain author’s knowledge by forced draw.

      The eighth circle of Hell with my head turned round just isn’t where I belong.

     Leading me to the night’s wonder: why do people like me? We’re in sixth grade for a moment because I mean like me like me. Usually I don’t attract the children of ages lesser than my own, as a matter of fact they rarely even match me. By the looks of it, I’ve strolled into the ballpark of grown men. Pushing aside the idea of my clumsy stumble I’ve considered the two major league reasons for this. The first being, “They’re immature, that’s why they want me,” and the second, “Or maybe I am on the level they’re convinced I am.”

     Peering beyond a few that provided Pictionary purpose to the prior, I’ve learned enough to keep up the awareness guard for filtering the retention pond. I could easily spot a dorsal fin from miles away with a sharp eye… if it’s open.

     & In the end it’s all an exhausted sport and I’ve tried being a player. Heartbreaking might be fine under Valium-colored skies, but here I’m gazing with a mirrored blank stare at Tamarian Gardens. “You cannot see anything. I tried it too.” As for being blindsided—I’m capable too, I’m capable of anything, after all.

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 18

Whatever tickles your fancy

 30 Days to an Almost End series list

At all costs I sought to give that which smothers you.

     I’ve been in love once. When the relationship ended, my trauma was realizing that who I was in love with wasn’t the person I had been involved with. It wasn’t a fabrication on my behalf (“. . .just as today our unsophisticated cameras record in their own way our hastily assembled and painted world.”), but a lot of false play and acting from the opposite end of the spectrum. Largely, it was, “I want to be, I want to be, yet I’ll never be.” (“Pretend all you want, you can cry to your heart’s own beat.”)
     From my end, I believe I was bodily in love. It felt as science defines it, so I imagine it was true despite the diamonoid fixture I directed it towards. I had never felt that way before in or out of love, especially when considering the bereavement I experienced following his initial absence. (“It was plain that he was upset by the loss of that precious object. It was plain. The loss of the object upset him. The object was precious. He was upset by the loss of the object.”)

     Someday, I want to fall in love with someone and selfishly reexperience the emotions I miss everyday. The constant fascination, a joy unexplainable, the desire to dedicate anything and everything I create (“Powerless to utter itself, powerless to speak, love nonetheless wants to proclaim itself, to exclaim, to write itself everywhere. . .”). I don’t hold reservation with trusting another person to the extent I did (“I know that I’ll have regrets, but that’s the price of one more lesson learned.”), but I am a bit wary at this point of a man’s promises if they sound the same. Maybe because it’s still fresh in my mind, but maybe lies are similar even if the people necessarily aren’t.
     More than anything, I want to care about another human being again with familiar passion. I had never felt more alive than I did when I was in love. Everything magnified and glorious beyond the norm, absurdly Nabakovian till the very last moment of fleeing a beheading. A muse, a grandeur inspiration of things I enjoy and dedicate myself too—that’s what I want love for, that’s what I want my altar to resemble.

     As for “the One,” it will be whoever my husband turns out to be. There isn’t a cosmic spider web of humanity separate from the aesthetic play of the popular notion. I don’t believe in divorce for my future. By default my husband will be referred to as “the One.”

We ache to dedicate, us in love.

     An intimate disgrace, the fashion in which my inspiration to drive creativity evacuated shortly after you were excused. & when you’re not sure what your ranking is beyond the departure from the ship you savored, where are you to be stranded in the sea of thoughts and names, my oh-so-hopeless Magdalena?

     A tugging from the anchor beckons you, “write write write, if only for the sake of writing every morning at 9 AM as sharp as you are in love.”
     “And if I do, to whom shall it be dedicated?”
     With no siren to accept the grace, to dive into your depths with assuring wonderment, why impregnate the work not yet prose? A sailor waited not prior to your pen’s touch; a sailor waits not now, for he stands stranded and strangled on the shores of self-deceit bearing the name, “your Magdalena, please come home.”

     Incurably scribing poetic dedications and lengthy acknowledgments with sorry aim to suffice our greatest works found lacking a substantial purpose undirected. Who’s to say a subliminally directed message renders something thought imperfect, perfect?

     Lying in what you create by the bed and the tongue, I dedicate this to the “desperately seeking a muse” class of my fellow man. Dear you...

This is about the difference between you and me--

     As we’ve gone along every step of this way hand in hand or falling apart, I have been a step ahead of the game and yours ad nauseam.

     Oblivious in my silence, you assume, still to consider the reality of the matter. Perhaps I knew then, and then, and then, and now again. Hint: I did.

     The set-up: I knew. The girls: I knew. The dilations: I knew.
     We died late. I hope you have regrets.

Are You the Rabbit?

     I am a danger to your life, I’ve come here to ruin it—this we hopelessly surmise. I’m not prepared to ever apologize in my name’s sake, however. I’ve been through this a million times before. One of the onlys of our issues is that you have not, not yet, not with dangerous me. Ruthless, conniving, vindictive; unwilling to surrender with or without a fight to the death of the inevitable end. I am the brakeless train, don’t beg the question of if there should be a complimentary wreck after you’ve promised me there’s room in your life.

     For you this might be exciting defiance. For me it’s a pathetic repetition I should know better than. Although, I will take partial blame, full if it is fault of my own for this lifestyle I’ve dripped into. Do I enjoy difficulties? Perhaps I’m rendering it so.

Case of the Missing Bereavement

     It’s nearly engrossing how less I feel in the arms of what I hold close to you. Your nonexistence, it pleases me. Watching you suffer, God, that too.

     To beyond greater things than the grandeur you were enveloped in—my ideals, perhaps of you.

     What a peculiar feeling to be this so-called “in love,” when we were just falling so terribly far and apart. Maybe I still don’t know what it feels like, your absence just isn’t devastating enough for it to be true…

     For now, this is all I want to feel—but not with you.

Nineteen...

     “I betrayed you,” she said baldly.
     “I betrayed you,” he said.
     She gave him another quick look of dislike.
     “Sometimes,” she said, “they threaten you with something—something you can’t stand up to, can’t even think about. And then you say, ‘Don’t do it to me, do it to somebody else, do it to so-and-so.’ And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn’t really mean it. But that isn’t true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there’s no other way of saving yourself and you’re quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person. You don’t give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself.”
     “All you care about is yourself,” he echoed.
     “And after that, you don’t feel the same toward the other person any longer.”
     “No,” he said, “you don’t feel the same.”

     It’s a “primitive” thing to be reduced beneath love by an outside force. The act is so unfamiliar to our species, it’s nearly unheard of in our society as bare discussion.
     How could they feel the same? How could they not hold high dislike for one another? Perhaps this is dislike of realizing one’s own instincts, particularly how far a human will go to protect themselves. I would be disgusted with myself if I were forced to betray you, but not deniable. I couldn’t feel the same about you because I wouldn’t be able to feel the same about myself.

     This is my favorite example of the realistic weaving of love.

On the Epic of Pathetic

     They’re hard, it’s life. Sometimes they end badly, rarely goodly—what’s left? Uncertainty. Perhaps from one end, hardly ever both. Loose ends? I’m unsure. My tightrope isn’t unraveling.

     Almost piteous, never angry. I hate to see crumbs when there wasn’t a reason to crumble.

     Break-ups. They’re hard, it’s life.

But it is never, ever ever ever, over. (:

In These Seconds

    “So—” said Billy gropingly, “I suppose that the idea of preventing war on Earth is stupid, too.”
    “Of course.”
    “But you do have a peaceful planet here.”
    “Today we do. On other days we have wars as horrible as any you’ve ever seen or read about. There isn’t anything we can do about them, so we simply don’t look at them. We ignore them. We spend eternity looking at pleasant moments—like today at the zoo. Isn’t this a nice moment?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s one thing Earthlings might learn to do, if they tried hard enough: Ignore the awful times, and concentrate on the good ones.”

This is the desolate unsharable instead by fours...

     Imagine the discredit I’d charge.
     Project the unbelievable and ultimate betrayal to the biggest thing I’ve ever known onto me on the personal, intellectual level of the preeminent masochist.
     I’d drown in the debt.

     When I jump you jump with me and we collide together again, my antilover. I’d have to break my human laws to escape you, you’d annihilate me if I didn’t protect my body and everybody with me. In that event resisting the horizon, what’s bigger and better for me? You, or the mistress of my thievery?
     I feel as if I’m wronging you, but what if you meet the love of your life and you’re already aboard a ship? Are you supposed to just let them pass you by without cannon blasts of your amour? I’m hurtling through, gazing with wonder and amazement, but… all I have is you.

     Loathing will grow, boredom will mount. Do you want me to be disgusted by you like I already am of so much of the spectrum, not system? I care too much, but, I do love you… I just love you in another.

     I’m sorry if our affair ends. I’m sorry for us, not me or not you. We’ve had a great run and who’s to say the finish line is going to be the break in our tightrope?

     Do not shed a tear and you will not become the tear.

For Your Facial Manifestation,

     I have uncertainty on doing this alone although everything until now has been, obviously not saving your raping gaping holes poking the opposite of happiness into my everything of but what a dark matter.

     I’m on the precipice of unchanged trembling with fear of almost the Room 101 with no no puppy to save me. I received “ticket for two” when what I really requested was a ticket for one.

     My forsaken dance of the fucking death by dial toll is what we once knew as our tender romance of the tender ages, four by maybe five accusations—none deserving the ripe credibility they have grown: cruelty is never a gorgeous gore, no matter the tone.

     When I said that everything is forever changing and nothing is unstoppable, what I really meant to scream at the very top of the tightrope of my lungs was “ME, for man is BVT A WORM.”

 

143rd Day of the Year

I1 l1o2v3e4 y1o2u3

(:

Special Blast of(f) Space

I know more about myself than all those who simply do not know this about me: that I am in love.

Part Four: Maxims and Interludes. Section 163.

Love brings to light the exalted and concealed qualities of a lover –

what is rare and exceptional in him: to that extent it can

easily deceive as to what is normal in him.

Sharp Invitations

    “No, not everything—tomorrow you will come,” Cincinnatus said aloud, still trembling from his recent swoon. “What shall I say to you,” he continued thinking, murmuring, shuddering. “What will you say to me? In spite of everything I loved you, and will go on loving you—on my knees, with my shoulders drawn back, showing my heels to the headsmen and straining my goose neck—even then. And afterwards—perhaps most of all afterwards—I shall love you, and one day we shall have a real, all-embracing explanation, and then perhaps we shall somehow fit together, you and I, and turn ourselves in such a way that we form one pattern, and solve the puzzle: draw a line from point A to point B... without looking, or, without lifting the pencil... or in some other way... we shall connect the points, draw the line, and you and I shall form that unique design for which I yearn. If they do this kind of thing to me every morning, they will get me trained and I shall become quite wooden.”