but i want to show everyone how much i love them.

i was scared, being so close, breathing with one person, being so vulnerable.
but happy, overflowing frothy happiness, playing but savouring the closeness too,
preserving it still feeling it, and the lurch of my stomach and giggle,
spark of eyes and tickle of your crawling fingers and the heat and skin and your lips.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

I'm not really present right now. All these torrents of living people and
living breathing moments & memories in an unstoppable stream all around me.
All these people, all these 'vile bodies'.
I don't know any of them. Oh, I wish I did & I wish there were someone here right now.
Because this is the worst time of year and everyone is so far away.
But it involves nothing, it is real life folded and stretched into, twisted into nothing.
Because I can't move right now, I can't sleep. I wish you were here.

" I love you, I love you but promiscuity is sandpaper"

I can't do this, it's not even possible. Tired, of this being the only thing alive, now and intermittently, reoccuringly. But it is, it always is, it always the vein that runs through everything I do and it keeps going. No, I think it is confused, it is something like this. This is a little dirtier, worse for wear. This is absolutely something, some perverse extension of the blood, or electricity. It is pathetic too, to rely on something, someone, so brutally fickle and unforgiving, selfish and egocentric. The worst part is that I understand, I can't escape.

The veins are deeper, relentless and they are caught up in this, yes. And this is escape, this is feeling, or it might be, could be. I always think that it might be, that this is the only way out- but it isn't, because there is more to living than this, there is more to feeling than hanging on, hoping, pretending. But it is too much to ignore, and it inflates feeling, builds it up into some, self-righteousness? I can feel, and I'm not afraid to, and I'm not superficial and I'll do anything I have to, to be able to feel, or plunge into life (and mistakes) like this. And it flies past everything, it's selfish and it means more than absolutely everything - that is the reason for the hurt, for the confusion? For the sidelining of almost everything that matters, because I always want to believe that this is it, that this is what is was meant for, that it means, it meant, more than anything else, so much you could throw everything else over. I do anyway, whether it is or not. I'm still aching to throw everything over. For you, for this, or for what it was.

It's all too easy to see something as it's not, or completely misinterpret. How, you're supposed to, or other people are, I'm not sure. OR how you're supposed to alter things to suit other people's readings, or minds. Or to make them understand. It's impossible. I'm not going to let go or regret how I've felt, in that it exists because it was always supposed to. I'm quite glad that this exists so separately, that such a superificial, surprisingly bubbling relationship can thrive at all, given my complete throwing off (or attempt) at this. I can't make sense, I can't make you understand. I can't feel anything, and people are too ridiculous. How are you supposed to describe someone's voice? There is no frame of reference for so many things. It's too contrived and I'm completely focused for some reason on digging out my soul. People are too painful. And I want to escape all of it. Paste it all over the place, I'm hanging onto too much, still you, all. Too much depends on too little.



Feeling: like some hot chocolate.
Listening to: falling away with you - muse. [its something like that]
Pretending: it stops hurting.