La Aime Douleur
...мир останется лживым, мир останется вечным, может быть, постижимым, но все-таки бесконечным...
I open my music library and notice the mistakes dated four years back, where every slide in minors reminds of something I failed to do. I cannot call myself a visual thinker, but all my daydreams of you I collect as pictures in a nonexistent photoalbum. Here’s one of you and I, smiling to one another in a thought shared but kept in secret from the photographer; you are wearing a white t-shirt underneath a black cable-knit sweater and the black-framed glasses that you don’t normally wear, and I am all suave with my seductive red lipstick and black turtleneck. And here’s another one, the album always opens to this page, it is my favourite snapshot: I am spoon-feeding you strawberry yogurt, the lighting turning our faces burning-coal orange, and I remember something extremely significant, like Page’s ‘Emerald Eyes’, playing in the background at that moment. The most recent ones include a bottle of Bombay Sapphire being passed to you, your funny black hat on my head, a drunken satisfied smile on my face.

None of these exist.

And yet these are the pictures I dramatically rip to colourful confetti and stomp on. These are the moments together I mourn, the moments that never happened. I cry over them in a proper manner, with sad music playing and possibly rain banging on the aluminum roof overhang. The weather is a fluke, but it definitely adds to the overall dramatic effect. Yet adding a cynical touch to the mourning just emphasizes its sincerity: I grieve over the un-happened like a future mother grieves over a miscarriage. Your presence in my life was the new life I failed to bring into this world, and with the essence of my being, I mourn the loss.
I open my music library, and anything beautiful reminds me of you. I sit in my fifteen-hundred-dollars-a-month apartment in front of my two-thousand-dollar laptop, surrounded by IKEA furniture on lacquered hardwood floors and feel impoverished and powerless, because logic and reason and outside circumstance are robbing me of the most precious emotion ever known to man. I should have learned to play the piano properly, and not quit halfway through third grade; maybe I would have achieved something more than just loving the idea of you so dearly over the past few years.

I talk about Nutella, but what I really want to say is, ‘I miss you. Talk to me. Love me. Save me. Be my miracle. Be my soulmate. Be my soul. Be mine.’ I am not brave enough to face you as feverishly in love as I am, so I drink gin and pull your hat over your face to fight the urge to kiss your eyes. I don’t know what I want, because if I had you, I would have something to lose. So I kiss strangers and smoke cloves and drink wine in the bathtub. I ride in the midnight train home and think about the one day I will find out you have a beautiful girlfriend, and she will kiss your collarbones and whisper iloveyous and run her fingers through your hair, and I will find out over the phone or the Internet. I will find out and all the nonexistent pictures of us will fill the floor of my room, and the room will be filled with nearly tangible blue of marijuana smoke and incense. My blues. I will feel my heart ache with thoughts of your chosen one never loving you with even a fraction of my ferocity. Her love will be crude and unripe when compared to the tender feeling I have harvested in my dreams. I look into your eyes and melt into my private Apocalypse.
I sip my gin from the blue bottle for an excuse to lay my head on your shoulder and count your heartbeats. I want to fill your mind with beautiful sentences, like you fill my head with beautiful thoughts. Like you feed my eyes beautiful images. I want to thank you for giving me so much, but I am afraid you would accuse me of theft.

2009-05-06 в 17:07 

Я, наверное бы использовала джин как раз для того, чтобы немного развязать цепи сковывающие язык и спросить/ попросить обо всем том, что думаю....

И тогда уже или кружиться вместе или рвать не_существующие фотографии на кусочки, оставить кусочек сердца и продолжать искать того, кому можно отдать остатки...

тот кто назвал англицкий ограниченным языком - не читал твои записи

2009-05-11 в 06:45 

La Aime Douleur
...мир останется лживым, мир останется вечным, может быть, постижимым, но все-таки бесконечным...
Да джин больше для того,чтобы была причина вести себя,как двенадцатилетная Олеся из Южно-Сахалинска,совершая одни и те же ошибки,впьяную или нет (: Будем надеятся,что если все и потеряно,то потеряно в стиле)

Спасибо <3


whiskey over ice