...of many things.
I'm grumbly. I know I don't have a good reason to be. I'm a liar, I have a good reason to be, but I don't want to admit that I'm going to miss you. It would concede too many things that I don't particularly want to accept. At least that's one way to view it. Another would be....well, nevermind that, too.
I'm being self-indulgent right now; read: selfish. It might not be very conducive to me being an enjoyable person but it does lend itself to creativity. I'm writing. And since you suggested that perhaps I write to you....well here I am, now aren't I? I'm here with all the ellipses in the world.
Ellipses....punctuation that represents omission of a word or whole section of text. That sounds about right. (I know you will) Read between the spaces between the lines.
*dips a paint brush into azure-pink paint and swings the brush like a knife, splattering over everything in the room *
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I want to see you
Know the click of your heels
The padding of your feet
I want to notice the scent in the curve of your neck
The smell of you in shower
The air that chases you in as you sweep into the room
I want to recognize the touch of your face pressed to my back
Your arms around my chest
Your hands grasping my shoulders
Your breath along my spine
I want to sense
When you are dreaming
And when you wake up
When you leave the room
And your anticipation as I lean into your space to kiss you
I want to know the joy of hearing you whisper
More
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A week and some days ago I woke up from a shallow dream. I had an epiphany and I went to write it out. I knew I was deep into the zone, so deep that I didn't think I had time to come downstairs to wake up my computer from sleep mode. Luckily I keep a pad next to my bed and I scribbled down what I had. Had to. I find that when you have something wild and beautiful in your head you gotta put it down while you have it because soon it'll be gone. This one I don't expect to be beautiful in your eyes, or even anyone else's eyes but mine, but it felt like something real and true in a way that I don't normally feel.
I was about halfway done when my radio went off. Just hearing the tones and the message threw me completely out of mind-state I was in. I couldn't tie it up nicely or even jot down the transitions I had in my head so I could remember what I had going on. It was gone completely and I never finished. What's left is just the bones of the beginning, going nowhere in particular. I will try to give it an ending now.
*picks up a long, thin paintbrush and dips it into sea-coloured blue. Carefully underlines your eyes, the cool-wet chilling on your cheeks *
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Clarity
Clarity: I will be alone.
I do not need attention and I do not need love. They are good food; enjoyable to have and occasionally very much desired, but they are not what keeps me alive or even sustains me. Those things are not what calls to me, nor is the pairing of two.
You say.
You say what I want is the same as what others do, as what almost everyone does. This is not true. I want to raise my voice and fight you. I would, but for hearing that I realize that you are not to blame. My own ineptitude is the real cause. I do not know how to put to words the things I feel, the fury that rocks inside my chest-and-head. If I cannot put it to words, then how can I have ever impressed it on anyone? Of course I must seem like the others!
I think we did impress upon each other, though. As our hearts have touched truly, deeply, once, but we, you, me, recoiled and it was forgotten. It is that unnameable, confusing thing-without-words. It's supernally deep and that rabbithole goes far, far deeper than (likely) either of us realize. We have not opened ourselves to it.
That is what drives me. It's not about other people. It's not about love or acceptance. I enjoy those foods but they do not sustain me. The girl does not matter nor the place; if they changed it would make not the slightest difference to me. What is important is the explorer-instinct to dive into this particular brand of mental unknown. For some extraordinary individuals it's space. For me it's this. One might say that this is just my ego speaking, but I know in my heart that what I speak of is rare. Exceptionally rare. The populace at large may have the desire, but they do not have the heart to chase it, to give up their lives to this thing.
Often I feel like this is the only part of me that is beautiful. I can see how people might portray me as noble and good because of kind things I sometimes do, but I do not think those thing make much sense. But in this, in chasing the dragon's tail, I am something totally singular, pure. For once my entire body is moving in tandem towards one goal and one moment and that is beautiful. I am living the ideal I want to live. I am beautiful in this way.
I think you've seen it. (...I hope you've seen it...) I don't know why this is important to me but it is. I don't know why it feels so desperate to say this, to know you will see this, feel this. It scares me though and my chest is thumping. My mind is telling me no, no, no but my body keeps moving. I have so much inside of me that I don't know how to pour out.
Sometimes I think I love you like the last piece of oxygen in a gas chamber.
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I'm full-to-bursting. I am also enchanted with hyphens. Coincidence?
I wonder; who am I writing to? I wonder; does it matter? I wonder; if I use enough semi-colons will I be considered indoctrinated?
*smooths your hair back and ties it back into a ponytail. You would smile and I would smile and I would paint your hips with war-brands while you watched *
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If I knew you, we'd have paint fights. We would giggle and laugh, smell of tempera-and-sweat and make an incredible mess, but it would be worth it. I would let go and smile. You would be free, so free, completely free, for once in your life not bound to anyone or anything. Perhaps it would be a bit exhilarating, or maybe a bit terrifying. Of this I am not sure.
What I do know, though, is that we would paint each other wings. To soar or to escape, we would paint each other wings.
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Do you remember the feel of paint on your skin? Go, go find a paintbrush. Wet it under the faucet and close your eyes. Then imagine the tip to be a shade of your favourite colour, or maybe just the first colour that comes to your mind, and paint your forearm. It's beautiful, non?
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I will miss you. I will miss you.
I'm quite selfish.
I want to hear your words. The ones inside you that you keep inside.
I am extremely selfish.
[[[Tell me anyway]]]
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I wonder; is this a letter to a friend or is it a work of [[art]]? Perhaps a bit of both.
Or maybe I'm just pretentious for daring to even possibly kinda sorta say that anything I write is art.
Hah!
(What will they think when they read this? Will they tell? Or will they keep their secrets?)
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