aeIronic how most of the time I find myself quite frightened of decisions I have yet to make, of places you have yet to be, situations you have yet to fall into. As though worrying about them as early as now will make any difference when I actually come upon them. It’s frightening how life can stretch onwards, far beyond me. All these possibilities. And so many of them too..

We are never entirely sure what happens in the end and it’s such sweet comfort. Ignorance is bliss. Knowing where one should be without knowing exactly where one will be. Grey office cubicles, the dizzying technicolor of parenthood. 

Right now, it doesn’t matter. 

We can live off booze and a few kisses here n there. Maybe meet new people along the way. Making sure to stop at every sign post but not truly making way to any destination. Incredibly vibrant with an unquenchable thirst to experience so much of everything. Biting off more than we can actually chew. Self destructing because it’s somehow romantic. Reconstructing for the same reason we self destruct. 

But some days are no adventure.

Some days you wake up mouth dry, aching for more sleep. Trudging across tuna fresh marble floors. Sighing at your emails. The tedious task of keeping sane. Earning money to buy things you’re convinced will make you happy. Mistaking every toxic romances for bittersweet love affairs. 

For youth, life is a series of innumerable days. 

We never count tomorrows because they are sure to come. We have too little yesterdays to regret any ongoing to-days. And so we spend it. Our fractured weekdays to build an uncertain future. Allowing ourselves to be gears in a machine that won’t stop for us. Becoming an employee number. Losing our weekends to sleep and reckless feats of deprivation. Because only youth can make any form of self ruin beautiful.

After all, we have countless decisions we have yet to make, untold places we have yet to be, innumerable situations we have yet to fall into.

Again, time to start anew.


Cursing Game

Because, honey, screw it.

I can damn you with a little slap of my honesty and you will have to fucking thank me for it. I am 300 complaints packed in a suitcase filled with pointless maps and that rancid smell of uncertainty wrapped around my skinny shoulders like a shitty body mist. 400 unchecked emails of self improvement subscription and a boatload of the cheapest coffee laced with 4 teaspoons of brown ass sugar. I am a rattle of fuss and obligation in the morning but come midnight and I turn into a heap of inactivity. Always ready to jump at the closest cliff just to feel fear again.  Mainly the reason why they scratch names on tombstones in the first place.

 Because, honey, you won’t know.

I can stay on my feet for 3 days with barely enough sleep -practicing my craft and all the other things that make me rise up- and you will have to deal with the rush and jitter of extremes that pass through me like water. Unending, seemingless projects to keep my mind spinning as it whirlwinds downward in a caffeine haze -my heartbeat barely a whisper to the passing minutes of sleeplessness that help me calm slowly. I run through days at a slower pace because every second is a moment spent weaving pieces of my shattered self together.

I am charcoal stained fingertips and Jasmine tea. French movies with no subtitles and poetry with no subtlety. I am inconsistent heartbeats and quiet notoriety. Spilling reckless words and literary molecularity.

So, honey, don’t you dare make me your comfort pillow. I am worth more than your bullshit.

Just remember I might have to fucking kick your whiny ass and you’ll have to thank me for it.

Just a thought: No.1

We all love the broken and lonely for all the wrong reasons.

It’s almost like finding yourself fascinated on a crumbling remnant of an antique delicate vase, the unspoken promise of vanished beauty entices you. Or maybe it’s because they are what we believe we’ll never be. Or maybe because it’s in our nature to capture unloved territories. Or maybe because we believe we can fix them all up into their former selves and claim that restoration as our accomplishment.

Maybe we just love ourselves more than we love their brokenness.