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

The Dark Knight Hath Risen : )

It's some ridiculous hour and I just got back from the premiere of what could be the greatest movie in the history of time. Maybe I'm exaggerating, maybe I'm not, but I haven't quite seen anything like this. What. Was. That. Cinematic revolution? The coming together of too many geniuses, if there ever was such a thing? I think so. Do not miss it for the world. And if you're about to die, well make sure it's the last thing you watch before you leave. It'll be worth it. The Dark Knight Rises, you will haunt me for a decade. And I'm quoting the minimum. 


Christopher Nolan, marry me. 

Dear 50 followers, thank you for finally rendering me speechless. : ) 

Shiver.

I had a dream I stood beneath an Orange Sky : Alexi Murdoch


Now there's no room for negotiation and none for personally viable imagery. There's neither scope nor time for settlements. What you have now is what you'll hold forever and I wish I could say that you were a part of my scavenged dossier but I've sifted and even hunted in my last few bargained hours, but I found nothing. It's like you never existed. Just as well. 


Give me a lie, and I'll live it. Give me a robe and a fancy hat, and I'll don it. Give me a piece of paper and blood instead of ink, and I'll scribe it. Give me frivolity and I'll find a way to conjure short-lived beauty, peace and purity. Give me a pounding heart, and I'll pretend like I never heard it. 


This is us, old with no recourse to the past. What we have now is all we'll ever have. If you look at it through many rose tints you'd find it perfect and that's the best way to look at it. But if you dare lighten the shades...


You find one place that you hope will let you forget and forgive and forgo. But if you carry all your baggage on your arm, up-sliding into your heart, seeping into your nervous system, and igniting dangerous cells, you can't expect even paradise to set you free. I've seen heaven and I've seen hell and I've seen them simultaneously. The worst part of not having a time lag between witnessing the two, is finding each equally mesmerizing and tempting. The two feelings rendering you unfit for either. When you get sucked into a roller-coaster ride of promise and hope and dejection and failure, you start enjoying the feeling of each. The loss that comes after the highs and the euphoria after the lows. 


All you had to do was ask. But you wouldn't. All I had to do was tell you. But I didn't. All that ever needed to be done, was untying the cruel knots that fate decided to put in the ropes that at some point would tow us back to each other. Maybe they're still not bad enough. Maybe 10 years later. Maybe not. I hate not knowing. But knowing would make me God. 


You're not mine. But I'm yours. And if that's not cruel, what is?