“How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you’ll never meet them. All right, so we do the best we can. Granted. But we must still realize that love is just the result of a chance encounter.”—Charles Bukowski (via cyberunfamous)
I can no longer listen to myself with any certainty. Because everyday is a revelation. A new set of morals. I’m skeptical of my thoughts and of how terribly temporary they are. How can I trust anything that I say in my head if the girl that I am is utterly unreliable and ever changing - as unsteady as the river pebbles? I can no longer elect truths with confidence. The only reality I am sure of is that a day is a life, and a life is a day. I am sometimes proud of myself, however pathetic this may sound, when I complete a full day. When I don’t collapse under the violent pulsations other people unconsciously emit. If I forget for a moment that I am not trying - to walk, to talk, to laugh. But I always realize afterwards that for that instant, I was floating down life’s fine stream. Just like that. Without any help. And that’s when we are at our most blissful, right? When we are naturally and simply existing and doing so with stunning fluidity at an almost basic and instinctive level. It’s funny that we can catch ourselves. Bottle them up, label them and go “See? Look at that. You were solid just then.” I’ve been hearing a lot lately that it’s like this. Very normal for my age. But really… it’s exhausting. The little river pebbles. We drop to a spot for an unpredictable amount of time. Then, unsystematically, the current pulls us miles and miles away from where we were firmly lodged just yesterday. Miles and miles, maybe down another river altogether by now. Feels like I’m out of synch. I haven’t been able to keep up with myself. Used to feel like the world was rotating too quickly but then, started to age too quickly. I think the body surpasses the mind a little bit when you hit like, 19 or 20 or something. The mind races but time hasn’t even got time for you. I fantasize about putting the whole world on pause and recomposing myself. Taking the empty space to glue things together. Learn and perfect. And then turn life back on play and be fully equipped. The only comparable earthly incidences I’ve noted have been when you pull yourself together in the bathroom of a roaring messy party, or when you have a calm 48th floor view of a slow motion city, or when you sink to the bottom of a pool surrounded by strange pale limbs. Those have been the only times I have imagined the world giving me a minute to peacefully recuperate.
The sun sets again from what I can see behind this coffee shop vitrine. Okay, there is a breeze. A dreamy gentle mother respire flirting with the little hairs on my arms with the deliberate intention of suggesting that my minuscule life is full of sweet September winds and sunsets and espressos just like those of this moment. I feel a wind so kind and I acknowledge her attempt at easing my distressed mind. So uselessly bothered by gasoline, the time and young siblings growing up ceaselessly. She will show up when, I guess, she thinks I really need it. Just as the pearly moon will too every so often. I suspect they team up whenever my spirit appears broken. She will blow through the windows of a classroom, she will shine above the city skyline for me. For me. For my well-being. I suppose I will live on simply not to disappoint the moon and the wind.
Sickly studying the way about her. She is the real deal. Rock and roll in her household since she was born. Ink in her veins, doesn’t care if people see it, cares even less if they don’t. Her intentions are not faulty. That’s why he’s enamored. Her stillness and the way she weaves in and out and around people and days and all of it. And she’ll weave through life regardless. No fucks given at all. So that’s what he likes about her, and why I myself am a humiliating mess with clear faults in my intentions. The way I look around and plan my route before weaving in and out and otherwise through days and people and all of it. The way I test the waters or wonder if I fit the landscape. I myself am concerned with hollow and trivial things and I want to be art and be art forever without trying. But she… She was born pure and he can feel those vibrations. So he writes about her and no more about you.