Writing is the art for the madmen, the psychopaths, neurotics, hypochondriacs, perfectionists, drinkers, smokers, lovers, the beloved, the nature obsessed, the cynics, the perceptive, and the truth-speakers and seekers.


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this is "hurt"

Do you remember that I love you? What is painful is the absence I feel without you. It is all around me, everywhere. When lying on my bed, I think of us all those months ago laying next to each other. We made plans, talked about our feelings and thoughts. We thought we knew love, each other, and more painfully we thought we knew ourselves. My body aches from wanting you back in my arms. Thoughts place themselves so securely in my mind, thoughts about you—of course, familiarizing themselves with you. When my love grew for you, you and your dark features and soft and illuminated sand-dune skin, I never knew that there was a darkness within you, darker than your chocolate eyes or your coal coloured hair.

Film stills: The Great Gatsby 1974

Being and becoming.

There is no way that I will say that I know truly “What I want”, in almost any respect. I want to pursue happiness: in all sense of the meaning.  Happiness can be temporal (until the craving is fed). And it can be “long-lasting”, and as to what that may mean—I am unsure. Things I wanted last year, of both the standard of myself and out of people have changed—I think for the better, but regardless: my temporalities have altered and become either nonexistent or they are securing an existence within me.  Slowly, perhaps, “I” am becoming “Myself”.

The greater longevity a feeling, event, or presence something or someone has in their life: the more substantial the other becomes, is that not true?

I won’t pretend to understand myself in this moment, or what we were in the past, but what I am highly aware of is the significant presence that you once had within my life. I will not materially list off the most relevant parts of “us” and the strongest/ weakest points we endured: because that is like having wanderlust but suppressing those thoughts limiting yourself to tours of the dark. 

It is true that don’t know who I was or what we were, be it a love or a loss. But what I can comprehend is the sheer mass I feel in my heart/ soul/ and on my mind.

What can you do. What will I do?

1,2,3,4

Sometimes I just want to know where you are. Am I off the map--of your heart? 

N+O

Why were we told of our perfection? We knew of our wondrousness. Why wasn't a love like that worth fighting for? We knew too much. Are these questions forever, unanswered? One can only hope the answer is more than two letters, more than N+O.

pretend

Commit, like Françoise, to those two precious hours per day. Perhaps in the morning (the celestial hour)...to the writing of Flora. That seemingly never-ending-never-beginning "novel"idea of a novel.

Listen to the voices of my head, the questions I ask and demand, the sound of anguish, gall repugnance, rain against the house, take it all in, soaking my soul, pouring out of my eyes--down my eyelashes. I won't cry. I will pretend not to miss.