It's a new home for now. I still haven't wrapped my head around this amazing city, and believe me, there is much I need to wrap my head around. This city bursts with creativity;I came to Montreal expecting some US-satellite-city. I was so wrong. You notice it from your first step in - there really is a different vibe to it, a unique feel. I swear I walked into The Room of Requirement the other day on St. Laurent, and it turned out to be a thrift store where the salesgirl offered us lemonade shots. Yum. There is much this city has yet to show me.
here's to you and me, and this year, and this life, and all that happened. and here's to you and me still here, and here's to the day before. Here's to this fucking city It's never going to be the same
I have often thought of what I would say to you if I saw you. Whether spitting in your face would be an adequate measure to express the sincere hatred in my heart. I actually cannot come up with an adequate measure. It's hard to label your feelings as this or that...I have moved on from protecting and sheltering, to running but you have to understand this is only because of the personal attacks leveled at me. This fixation on 'virtue' and chastity, this talk of women being tissue papers, it sickens me. Resistance is an exercise entrenched in futility.(I despise hypocrisy)
The human heart is a fragile place. The mind is just another cog in the machine - its is a verb, not a noun, and it's sole purpose revolves around repeatedly trying to erase the indelible scars the heart's suffering leaves behind. People say experiences are enlightening, all of them. I beg to differ, I can't sleep anymore, and I can't write or love the way I used to. My fantasy has now transformed and involves me running, running, running, running. I do not see these as particularly beneficial developments. Some experiences, are counter-productive.
I'll grab anything to soothe away the pain (I despise desperation)
There's always questions. First it's always 'why?' that's when you're still not over the denial, and the unfairness sinks in. Next it's blame (I spy with my little eye...) I can take you through the processes of the human psyche. Or I can tell you how I deal with it. I'd rather the latter. I make no secret of how selfish and unfeeling I am. It's disgusting really.
This is not a safe space, and I have nailed my heart to the back of that boat and it has set to sea. I want it to rot away.
I have to abandon writing as though I possess a monopoly on the universal truth. I do not. I will leave collective conscience for another time and story. Universality only works for so long, and for so many ears. New Creative Outlook 101. Bring back the self. I am self-centered again.
I want to get high. Just so I can hold down my body from getting up and swaying every time you open your mouth to sing, or every time you pluck your signature chord. you are my counterpart. I've heard your voice before, a hundred times over, and I'd hear it a thousand times more. I freeze up when realisation hits me. What's mine is yours what's yours is mine. My voice wavers when I'm emotional and I can't sing when I'm lying down. I'll show you mine if there was any remote possibility you'd show me yours.
I like compartmentalising my thoughts in chaos situations (this is not the time, as in not this time, that is, not right now). But I go to the blank white room in my head, and shut the door behind me. My thoughts run pell-mell into each other on another plane on loop (when the floors of memory and rational thought dissolve). I think I'm trying too hard again, and I'm thinking too much
she tells me a story about her life. It's a central image actually, around which her life revolves. It's Jessie Weston and James Frazer for Eliot and his resulting masterpiece. It's archetypes to human free association. I am only trying to impress upon you the significance of the image. Think of a snapshot that captures your heart, soul and emotion. It is not my story, but it's the story of my life, and yours, and it is sensual, it's every feeling between happy and sad.
Tell Mina that image is every image in my head, it's every moment in my life. It is a snapshot of a beautiful sunny day at the beach and the details are so vivid, it is devastating. Those details make up my life. I can spot a grain of sand, because it calls to me, and only me, and you. The ocean sings to me, I can feel the tenors in every sparkle where the oblong rays of the sun fall on the ripples of my kingdom and it ebbs and flows and crashes in my ears, making a symphony of my life. I can spot seashells in the swollen belly of the shore, and the pregnant wave is ready to hit my knees, and I am ready to collect the seashells. And I'm waiting for the water so I can sink my hair and submerge my soul. It fills in me such a feeling of fulfillment and contentment, and my head is filled with circles. I always find circles are laden with so much meaning, don't you? I am waiting for the moment to happen. I am thinking of only one thing: I must collect the seashells, because laughter filled with joy and rapture surrounds me, and it is my best friend, and my teacher, and his sister, and my lover, and you, and her, all around me. There are so many beautiful seashells, and I am a collector of the highest caliber. It leaves me there, and I'm sure only you and everyone can understand the spectrum of emotions in my life. Every feeling between happy and sad.
I am inspired every day. Don't you think it's kinda cute that I wear the stars on my sleeves, and see the world through my heart-shaped sunglasses? So Lolita-in-the-New-World. White lights, in your arms tonite. Till I lose sight. Tripping through your psychedelic reds makes me a little dizzy. For one day, I'm the bare-foot girl with the wild hair.
I am tired of fighting battles everyday. They leave me battered and bruised, and with a bad taste in my mouth. I am far too young to have to believe there are no turns for me to take, and I lose faith. How long is the angst supposed to last, anyway?
You have kept me going, and no, I'm not hiding anything, there's nothing that's wrong, really, I don't think it'd be a good idea for you to indulge in my fatalistic discourse. I am the same person I was two years ago, and it terrifies me.
I think if I wrote out my life for you, in a series of stories, it'd serve as a far more coherent description of who I am. Maybe it would explain to you why I am this way, and why that, instead of the things I say to you when you are too sleepy to listen, and of course, your voice is heavy with sleep. It makes me mad, but it is a tender image, so I don't make a huge fuss out of it, and the next day I tell you I love you anyway. My life is the autumn leaves that never fall in this city, because it feels like there's two seasons, wouldn't you agree? I think it has something to do with the maritime influence; you know, I can never imagine myself living in a hot climate even though we grew up here, you and I. I've always loved the winter. Maybe it has something to do with the way I was brought up, which of course, you wouldn't know about. Sometimes I don't know who I am. It's just transitory identity crisis, and I talk myself out of it. But sometimes, I can't answer a lot of things about myself, even when you ask leading questions. Stories would help because my stories are usually one-sided, and leave little room for conflicting view-points (for the record, I used to be the one initiating, you made me realise I don't anymore and I think it has something to do with bad past experiences). I wonder what your opinion would be on a person having two lovers or the moon and lunar madness, and if you think you own me. Maybe if you tried sometimes, I wouldn't be such a tarnished out-of-tune radio. It is a bit funny how I bottle up, and then gush out everything I've been keeping in. You've made me learn to laugh at it, and that's another story in the making. The one thing I wouldn't want you to feel confused about is that I love you, and that I am especially great with love stories, without the possessive noun, of course.