Disease.

So they dug your grave
And the masquerade 
Will come calling out
At the mess you made

What is this? 
At a time when I was supposed to have everything figured, all aspects covered, all bases cleared, all hidden nooks discovered, every nuance seared. I find myself here. 
Jeered at, mocked, rendered pointless and stopped.
Stopped from fulfilling what I came here for,
they reached inside me and extracted what I was hiding,
straight from the core. 
I didn't care for much anyway, 
but when I did, even you knew it wasn't child's play.
Yet you tracked me down
Yet you hunted me around town
Yet you traced my footprints from uncovered sand
Yet you found my hideaway in the throes of abandoned land. 
Did they clear you for heartbreak? And what about insensitivity?
And you're sure about sheer stupidity? 
Used me to your amusement while I was at your disposal,
refused every proposal,
diffused every carousel. 
Then while I stood amidst all the darkness with just some twinkling in the skies to guide me,
I never asked you to come find me.
Still you drew up a map and tracked that lighthouse I told you about,
the lone one standing where the world begins,
where you once heard me shout out,
that I knew of your daylight sins.
The night time isn't so bad,
because that's when the fables are told, 
and the mould actually holds. 
Now that I'm here again,
scathed, unwanted, brain-dead.
You're finding a way to do it all over again.
You're finding a way to stop the rain,
from washing off all I need it to,
all I'll bleed into. Until I'm reduced to pulp and fiction,
only then will you concede and stop the friction.
Only then,
when,
there's nothing left of me;
and all that's left,
is you.

Don't get too close
It's dark inside
It's where my demons hide
It's where my demons hide -Imagine Dragons

Don't Let Me Fall

"Underneath the moon, underneath the starsHere's a little heart for youUp above the world, up above it allHere's a hand to hold on to"
You've given me some warmth and I can now draw out my cloud-like blanket to wrap up all of you and all of me in one sweet gush of hot chocolate, snow settling inches away from our faces, happiness cloaked as silliness and a smile I don't even know has been at the corners of my mouth for a fortnight now and that's how long we've been in different seasons. But you're here, inside of me, this time making me laugh at you, cry for me and be patient for us. 
"But if I should break, if I should fall awayWhat am I to do?I need someone to take a little of the weightOr I'll fall through"
Maybe this is the flip side of the flip side. It was probably meant to be a trap and what started out as a joke on me is now no laughing matter. I've seen you. All of you. And you can't do anything about it but what's most disconcerting is how you don't seem to want to. Don't back off this time or I'll break. Don't back off this time or I'll self-resuscitate; break-crumble-last-breath-die-away-wither-sunset. Are you smiling? That's weird. I thought I was.
"You're just the one that I've been waiting forI'll give you all that I have to give and moreBut don't let me fall"
You're here for good. Wow. Say that again? Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn love. Did the Lumineers write that song about us? 
"Take a little time, walk a little lineGet the balance rightGive a little love, gimme just enoughSo that I can hang on tight"

Be my happy place. Be stationary in an ever rotating-revolving-roller-coastering snow globe of mine. My life, outside the door and inside, is the postcard of that secret garden and that hidden away sea where we extracted that sea pearl from that shell where we found one more thing than we lost and those lights twinkling behind me told me you were my makeshift dreamcatcher but that's when I figured that midnight city or not you'd shine like my daylight, glitter like my snow or twinkle like my personal dose of indigo neon stars. Sigh. Comfort in a cup. Mine. 

"We will be alright, I'll be by your sideI won't let you downBut I gotta know no matter how things goThat you will be alright"
Taking care of me taking care of you, admittedly falling into that zone you detested and savouring every refreshing drop of it. Calling me by my name after years of anonymity and oblivious, blind banter transforming into conscious, self-aware conversations that smell of musk because your breathing might just be my heartbeat. Heart. Beat. Box. 
"You'll be the one that I'll love forever moreI'll be here holding you high above it allBut don't let me fall"
Come now. Don't take too long. Look up, you might just see the Northern Lights. Don't wonder how they got there, I brought them to you because I wanted the muse, the inspiration transported to where we are and not the other way around, have something to say to the Universe that has a way of doing things exactly how I like them? Prepare for the holocaust because your question could just be answered. What have you got? Me? I'm yours. Not your usual take-what-you-get-psychopath-dramatic-bundle-of-explosive-energy, you've got me at christmas time. Happy-hearted. :)

-"Lenka."

Crystal Mornings.

Hello snow, happy snow, my first real snowfall. :)
If everyday was like this, there'd be little cause of any worry at all. Such a beautiful world we live in.

Happy new year gorgeous followers! 

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.

No, Really.

When was the last time it was 11:11 and you had nothing to wish for? 

When was the last time you were victorious and despondent at the same time? 

When was the last time something frightened you as much as it remained irresistible? 

When was the last time you could really live with yourself? 

And when was the last time somebody actually cared about you?

Because I'll tell you something, they probably didn't know who the hell you were.

You Don't Deserve A Name.

I don't want to be a pole vaulter. Never did. But to be told that I can't be one? I'm such a mess that I'm quoting Robin from How I Met Your Mother. Actually, some of these shows can really teach you some profound lessons. Pay a shrink, cram some books, and you may never get there. But download a hit American soap. And bam.

This is the first time I've regretted anything. Screw this shit. I'm leaving and I can't wait to board that flight. Next stop, London. I love London. It's going to help me discover myself. But you know what the best part about London is? You're not going to fucking be there.

Nothing's Gonna Change My World.

7 days.

I should be writing about graduating from a magical place. About stepping into a whirlwind decade and the realization of it by a glamorous age. About the upcoming distance from the only two life-long bonds I've known, or the only third genuine one anyone can ever know. About finally striking off a million options. About the hope of finding my 'calling.' Or being smitten by the charm of responsibilities. About figuring out the key to the lock on the old and dirty window-pane and slowly cracking it open. Or maybe even about the small number of beautiful people I'd like to transport with me. But instead I choose to rant like a child about these 7 days. It's ok, it's alright. 

On the third day now, I think I know about all the mistakes I've made. I never should've recoiled after the first time that I let you go. Never should've given in. But once I did I mistook the friendship for the love and the love for the friendship. And now I don't know which one makes it harder to breathe. Harder to not pause at your name. Harder to keep scrolling and pretending that I feel nothing. 

You said you weren't my type. And you couldn't be more right. My type would smell like the rain, taste like midnight, sound like the ocean, look like the pages of my favorite book and feel like hot chocolate. He would write songs through the day for me on crumpled sheets of paper, and then play them out on a broken guitar by night. He would say my name each time like he was saying it for the first time. He would have mastered the art of getting by but would only feel extremes by my touch, my presence, my thoughts. He would make sure I knew. He would be the only thing that mattered, that felt better than a combination of chai, cigarettes, a rainy day and Across the Universe. He wouldn't obsess over an adolescent city, but he would appreciate it's murky beauty. He would appreciate it's ability to show dreams, to be the projector of a slideshow, but never confuse it to be the dream itself. He would let his heart break, and then allow someone to fix it, to try and mend it in their own dodgy way. He'd make it rain when my life was a desert and then grab me by the waist and waltz for hours. He would know what, when and how, before I did. He'd be able to make cheap vodka taste like the finest scotch. He would believe in magic and somewhere-far-away and could make me believe in princes and fairy-tales again. All the world's a stage and he would be the director. He wouldn't say one thing and mean another. He wouldn't be able to tell the difference between thorns and roses. Between guns and bullets. Between bloodbaths and strawberry fields. Between me and him. 

My type would sweep me off my feet. I deserve my type. You're not my type. 

-You may be a lover 
But you ain't no dancer : The Beatles