Tag Archives: memories

Jesus wept

two words

Jesus wept

I wept
I am weeping
the beauty of music is its ability to

shock our soul into
recognition of mortality

connection, flimsy contact

shaking and trembling
tears dripping
heart breaking

stiff and agonising realisation
mortal prison of flesh
the soul she cries

for she can not escape and mingle with her fragments
swirling with the universe

trapped shard in meaningless structures
false identities and constructs.

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No more. Moving on

I’m tired of downward spirals.

Mental health, physical health and emotional health will only get better from here on. Mistakes made owned up to, laziness acknowledged and just a whole lot more personal responsibility taken for the shit I do. 

That includes accepting the things I did not do and to love myself consistently, beyond mistake made and mistakes done to me. 

The planets are aligned to allow for self-realisation. All around me couples are ending their old commitments, as are people to themselves. They’re looking out for their own hearts, souls and future by sifting through the past.

I sifted through mine and found my heart still broken, found that behind the anger and hurt and bitterness was the young, innocent, fragile girl broken by the attention her body and energy attracted, broken by separating heart and body, love and sex. The one person she started to give her heart to smashed it to smithereens. He was unavailable and she took it, unable to believe that she could be wanted. She believed she was wanted and dreamed big until he revealed the lies he told through shared dreams and hopes and love.

That girl made an appearance again today when she thought of the boy she rejected for her first boyfriend, the one who she met at a time in her life when she was most detached from her heart, but told him she felt detached from him. The boy who loved so quickly she couldn’t accept it because she couldn’t love herself. And then she learnt that she could, but lost it again when she found out 8 months with her first love was all a lie.

If you’re reading this, Bug, I hope you know how sorry I am for hurting you. And I hope I’ll be able to say I’m sorry for what you had to experience rather than the apology I gave long ago that was simply a pity-party. 

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Tonight’s mood

Aesthetic:
Cold wind
Hard chair, unreluctant hall cat.
Wafts of chocolate
Fresh laundry
Calm

3am
Clear night sky
Tap tap on the keyboards
Essay due at 8

Tap tap on the cigarette
Bottles clinking
Posing
Bonding but boundaries

Tap tap on the door
Supper and bikes
Tap
Drinks
Tap
Bible

Soft breeze cold night
Aesthetic:
Soothe songs, personally curated playlist
Soft touches
Till its 3am
And she’s still not back.

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3rd Nightmare in a row

I wouldn’t say it was a nightmare as Hollywood imagines it. No scary monsters, no sudden ghost or monster popping up and scaring me awake – though I had one a couple months back, had to get a hug in the middle of the night from fear – but these three nights have been filled with nightmares that are intensely stressful scenarios.

I dreamt of Chris last night. I was out with friends at… a park of sorts. He was across the lake, or on the lake canoeing. He was bigger, more muscular to an extent but clearly denser and wider. His hair was a crazy afro mess. It was uncomfortable seeing him walking around constantly flexing his biceps. He came over, sat down, and tried to be conversational with everyone, but me. Stares of pity filled the table and I sat in quiet discomfort, minimal eye contact and stiff body posture. Finally got up and left, half running away from him. From them.

He follows, so what else can I do but hop onto the train and hope to lose him? He follows.

Next thing I know, I’m in a courtyard, and using a balloon float up towards a flaky pastry cloud, coasted with sugary gloss like Ritz’s Strudels. I’m not just literally running away from my problems, I’m flying away from it. He becomes Jon in how I was going to find him at his place, but it’s complicated to journey there.

Then I’m at my booth, my magazine’s booth. But who are these girls selling our magazine’s stuff? We have merchandise… we have MERCHANDISE? These girls are punks, they don’t care for the magazine, they don’t care for the store. Why are they here, what’s happening. I take charge and give notes on what needs to be rearranged and sold and explained or given descriptions. Nothing, they listen to nothing and no one.

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