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i want a break from everything

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love as long as there s love. you are so beautiful to stop loving. transparency is a good thing somehow. theyll see ur tiny heart, thin and brittle and theyll know who you are. ahhh,' she has loved a million times. '

!! this is honestly the most beautiful thing someone's said to me in a long while, thank you so much, plum. really it's small messages like these that just remind me of how human beings can carry so much light, y'know? so thank you for reminding me of that again, & hope you're having a good night suga <3

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(notes on self-preservation & transparency)

october is beginning to feel like a membrane - light-scratched eyes, only beginning (gently) to fall through. trying hard to reconcile with the fact that the two people i used to love so deeply are no longer really in my life, that there needs to be distance, time, space. feeling so fucking, i don't know, disappointed. having to just disappear, slip through the door, quietly. it's deadening, i think. to feel that there is so much love, and hope, and labour you are willing to put in for a person, and that maybe, maybe - sometimes - you just can't keep on doing that for someone, no matter how much you want them to hold you while you cry in their arms. that secretly, behind the soft-gaze, soft-heart, they store some sort of quiet, hushed energy for someone else. and that someone you trusted could just let it all happen, sit there, letting the seams slowly break. i don't know anymore. there is a quiet time of the night when there's nothing left to give, to cry about. why do human beings even cry for love? love. i mean, god, the things we do for love. how do we even begin to grasp the overlap. love and loss. is it too much to ask for some fucking honesty?

all i think i'm doing now is floating, i think. watching s break off a piece of her bread, for me. there is love in that, in other places -- there is always going to be, i'm telling myself. new people i can trust and confide in. who won't break the little piece of a heart i have left. to be able to cry in s's lap in the soft blanket of her home, her hands running through my hair, and the sun ever so glimpsing through the gauzy, sand-cotton curtains. why would you not want to be a part of something so beautiful? twisting up in some lace fabric, my cheek pressing softly against warm, new glass. the sun looking so beautiful, so new, so new, through the little cacoon i've made. g silently chuckling, and me too, staring at the beginnings of things. new homes, s's home. being able to play music, share music, with someone that is becoming (slowly and surely) a part of your daily life. 

i'm trying to be okay with this. it's hard. it's hard.  trying to let go of everything and everyone you used to love. it's such a thin membrane. everything is so transparent. 

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Artificial Increase, Monika Dorniak 

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Have you ever made a mistake? A real one? Burned or held a body you didn’t want because you could feel its ruin, and it wasn’t you. By mistake, I mean I would like to be absolved.

Stevie Edwards, “Sorry I’m Not Sorry,” published in Drunk in a Midnight Choir 

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Brett Whiteley (Australian, 1939-1992), The Divided Unity, 1974. Screenprint, 66.5 x 93.5 cm. Edition 63/70.

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tchaikovksy || october (autumn song) - 'the seasons' 

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… my heart is a parachute that has never    opened in time

Andrea Gibson. from “Pole Dancer,” Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns 

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— A. Van Jordan, “af·ter·glow”

“af·ter·glow \≈\ n. I. The light. esp. in the Ohio sky after sun- set: as in the look of the mother-of-pearl air during the morning’s afterglow. 2. The glow continuing after the disappearance of a flame, as of a match or a lover, and sometimes regarded as a type of phosphorescent ghost: This balm, this bath of light / This cocktail of lust and sorrow, / This rumor of faithless love on a neighbor’s lips, / This Monday morning, this Friday night, / This pendulum of my heart, / This salve for my soul, / This tremble from your body / This breast aflame, this bed ablaze / Where you rub oil on my feet, / Where we spoon and, before sunrise, turn away / And I dream, eyes open, / swimming / In this room’s pitch- dark landscape.”

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( this song, & litanies by J.H that remind me of yesterday at the surry hills velvet cave stage  27.9.14)

you hover near lovely unconscious life-forms that offer no immediate resistance 

people look like they are dancing before they love

it is fun to walk carelessly in a death zone

and

I love my mind when it is fucking the cracks of events

this september has been all sorts of new and silent beginnings - new methods of catharsis, of reinventing myself. i've cut off a good chunk of hair and dumped it in the trash. i no longer have a boy to love and call home. in some ways this is good for me, i think. i hope. 

 yesterday a friend and i saw the citradels play at the velvet cave stage, and we just let our bodies free-fall to the drone of their guitar, their dreamy looped melodies. everything so amber-lit, amber-edged in memory. the way the city looks, precisely, at half past three.

i've decided that nothing feels better than closing your eyes and letting your body slow-burn, especially to the song golden gun. letting it naturally sink into sound, into rhythm. lifting my arms because it feels good, taking a drag because it feels good, breathing out the smoke into the cold, open air because it feels good. feeling someone's body melt into mine like some beautiful, unexplained violation. trespass me, i want to tell them. breach me. 

i remember the way two girls affectionately held each other, their red-lipped smiles kissing the sky. how one of them squeezed my hand, held it, like some vision from almost famous. realising that i wasn't even fucking high, that this was life on its own, at its best. at its fucking highest. realising that this was my body, pressing itself to the wind as if it were on a huge, gigantic rock. feeling, later, pockets of breeze tucked behind my neck.

these nights i turn off the lights, dance more to slow, distorted shoegaze. take the longer route home. count the steps. it's the second time this month that i've seen the boy i used to love (the one i've been loving for four years) and it's strange, feeling so familiar. riding our bikes down a hill at night, stealing frozen yoghurt, laughing. tell me how to make sense of this, again. 

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And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

Khalil Gibran, The Prophet  

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meow i dyed my hair !! *~* ˚₊✩‧₊(⌯͒o̶̶̷̤ ꀾ o̴̶̷̤⌯͒)* ✩‧₊˚ *~*

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