There's always this happy little moment; I exaggerate my usage of the word moment - because perhaps it lasts just a vast bit longer.
So when the break comes, when the dawn bears with it foggy billows of grey, and daunting ashes of silver - You've been partial to feeling something better, something more akin to rainbows and the discovery of the unicorn. It's like the emanating of a Western summer or standing before the Continental Divide, arms wide open...
Well it's true - he scares me. He allures havoc on my rib cage. I'm in love with a man that will tear my heart from my fighting limbs, seam from seam. He'll discard me in a fashion that only useless people use brain-cells. He'll erase me as a fantasy and succumb to ignorance as a way to cope. I'll be nothing more than a piece of paper with misunderstood phrases and under-utilized lyrics. I'll be gone quicker than the sun, and he'll never feel it like I feel it. All of this I am certain of.What I am however not certain of is how do you keep trudging through something while you feel this way? How does your body not implode from itself with this emotional war going on internally? Do you cut through the glass, do you keep pulling up the roses, and plant your feet firmly on the ground? Go for the politics and make a movement of it?Or do you throw the ring down and say, "Dance the fuck around it!"? Concave your chest in before he does, walk away, run away, burn away - Senseless, hopeless, drained and full of cowardice. Who becomes the bigger person, and who becomes the equal? No one wins - this is love and war. It's the only battle that is fought not over money or over greed - but for sheer weakness of your own shortcomings. The ones that you know you can never overcome and argue through.
A. will not work
Want to know why?
Because the american dream is a fallacy?
-And my escapism disposition is failing to allow A. to become a reality.
Because in order for A to work.
Because as long as B exists you are not ready for A.
B will eventually, yes...
If A is your true destiny.
Though, Then there is always C...
C is for curious I cannot tell you what C is.
It is imperative that C remains an open ended variable
C is for Cindal -
That's the me, and the now.
The now -
Is my favoriteFor the past six days I've been sitting up at five in the morning, waiting, just waiting... Waiting for something to occur, for my phone to alert, or my lungs to collapse, for my heart to regain order, or my brain to quit. To quit fucking thinking, to quit reminiscing in the ways that minds so carelessly do. The torture begins to take over from emotional to physical. When I find myself grasping my chest, wondering if I should own an oxygen tank for times like these? Times like these that endorse some kind of wretched intensity, so passionate, so devastating that one begins to wonder if they could have done anything to prevent it... But the fact is, there was nothing that could have been done. The fire was started before anyone even knew anything was burning. So here it is, the measure in which I take to forget all the ailments in my body; they are quickly seizing all of my common tendencies. Albums that almost, literally, reek of you. Pictures that need no captions, and my mind brings those memories to the forefront and just lets them permeate there. As if I would have forgotten already, as if I would ever forget. It's been six days, and six days is a long time to go without air. Maybe it's the blink of an eye to you, or the murmur of a vein being constricted temporarily. But it's a damn collapsible thing to me. It's the hours and the minutes, the loss of sleep, and the weight shedding, it's the sweat I wake up to, the sweat of my own chest. The beating and pulsating, the pounding, and crushing of every molecule in my forsaken body - it's a miracle I even continue to wake up, and I know what miracles are.I think to myself, what was all that trying for? What were all those nights about? We captivated each other by nothing more than glances, and longing stares. When our eyebrows would shift, and the corners of our mouths would cripple with words so romantic, and silent it would shudder the most prolific poets, turning them over in their graves, envious that people like us exist. -- But then they didn’t really ever gave it a chance to exist in unison, so where do all those words go? Where do all those romances fall upon? They are weighing on my chest like cinder blocks and anvils. They are crushing my limbs, numbing my eyelashes closed. How can one feel so empty, yet so consumed by every possible, feeble, fickle, erratic and complacent emotion - all at the same fucking time? This is misery, this is harder. These are moments that by God, flowers fucking die before they’ve been picked. When inactive volcanoes erupt, and peace found countries flourish with violence and corruption. There is never anything more devastating than heartbreak, than a love that may have died before its time. I know that feeling, I know the notion of almost having lost something that you barely had a grip on in the first place. It’s like the crushing of walls; and why put trust in walls, they were only ever meant to fall. I just keep thinking, if we could have given it a little more, put in just a few more heartstrings, and looked longer into one another’s eyes. Maybe, just maybe, without fail, we could have risen to something more containable. But now it’s just memorable, and haunting. Like a car meant to rust, or milk that sat out too late. Things spoiled by ignorant natures, the kind that only humans could ruin. I never knew I could love something so dangerous, so entangled in themselves that they never had given me even a sweet chance.