Thursday, December 20, 2012

The Life of an Unstable Kryptonite.

"The prettiest in crowd that you had ever seen
Ribbons in our hair and our eyes gleamed mean
A freshmen generation of degenerate beauty queens" Lana Del Ray

Are you alive?
Ok good, just checking. 
Last I checked I wasn't breathing and your heart wasn't beating. 
But we had a pulse. We always have a pulse. 
Am I far enough for you to see me now? Distance always meant two completely different things to us. I found out that for me it means castles, spirits, warmth within snowflakes and all things vintage. It means our own little puffy versions of grey clouds. Colours. So many colours that you can almost sense them pixellated. Accents you've never heard before, accents that are so exotic you're scared your hippie nature may not cope well with travelling to the exotic places they originated from. Snapshots from a polaroid. Fairy lights that make you jump. Travels that daunt you, mountains that haunt you. Seas that don't exist and seize, all that resists. 
Independence, not taken lightly.
You, just found a pit. And stupidly fell into it. Why now? Convention wouldn't call you stupid, but actions are now screaming at you. You let me slip away from your home, your neighbourhood, from your city, from your state, from your country, from your continent. And finally, from you. From you to the lure. To the temptation of being a muse, of being surefooted. From deep, dark desires to crimson desires bursting at the seams. Violent violets are making way for pristine peonies. A drug rush in a sweaty mosh-pit is so much more attractive than a neat tablecloth laid out for me that will eventually land itself in a controversial pile of smudged mascara, spilt red wine, loose strands of what was once an english rendition of a chignon and dapper heels. Oops. 
See that? I slipped away again. And you don't get any better at tightening your grip. Aha. Supposed to be a hold. Got you. 
I just watched the sun set. This morning I watched it rise. Weird that it does that, every single day. 
He may not be sitting and waiting with a guitar but he's technologically adept enough to have recorded versions of my life as a musical, ready and waiting for me by the time I return. 
Ugh. I think I may have a split personality disorder. If only I could dance like Beyonce. Oh, I try.