The haze of emotions biting the back of my neck. To feel everything acutely but remember none of it a moment later.
The idea of a life, the imagination of living a second makes me happy. Happy enough for me to die in my sleep tonight. The intoxication that follows when the dullest moments turn into you and explode with orgasmic peace inside your head.
To be able to smile so much that insanity begins to reach you. Only to pass you by.
In those moments when all is chaotic and your mind is in order, there emerges a longing. For more. Peace doesn’t mean contentment. It means an acknowledgement of all you have, your desire for an endless more and the certainty that you shall have it.
When you realise how every conversation except the one you have with your self, is a minor sin leaving a moon-shaped scar in the back of your mind.
That somehow these scars disappear everytime you write this. This is not an admission. It is not a declaration. It is your thoughts in exaltation so that they turn tangible.
You are here now, and even when you are gone from here, it wouldn’t change anything. Except the semantics that your inadequacies may generate. And now you want to protest and say how you have no inadequacies. Knowing that is foolish.
Denying yourself is not pain. It is perfidy. Against who? You tell me.
Sometimes this childlike desire. To run wild, naked and on shards of uncomfortable lives screwed over by you. To shout out a billion times how happy you are and that life is so fucking amazing. How you find everyone so absurd for not being happy all the time and how you are happy even when you’re saddest.
Cut down thoughts, emotions, words into fragments and place them in a carefully drawn chain of events. Of consequences. Make it simple. You think simple is what is convenient? Or is it what gives your mind the most clarity? You know that is a rhetorical question and that I know why I must type it out aloud.
How can I not be hopelessly madly in love with myself?
This is when I am about to stop writing and melancholia sets in, but I must stop because I am leaking from every corner, every curve. The words that seep out sometimes, the ones you can read are not meant to be spoken or written. They are too shy, and they veil themselves with excesses. If you cannot understand that you must shut your eyes, go back and keep the backspace button in your head pressed for a while. Do not save changes, and exit.
