they say that when the going gets tough. the tough gets going. and the disclaimer would be. that i never said i was tough. only that i was a fighter. a survivor. who like greek king Midas. lived in supposedly enviable too golden times. of which colours and touch were uncompromisingly convenient at the end of one’s fingertips. two ends of the sanity spectrum. this was a pro-cess that could be terminally profiled as the bermuda triangle that became bizarre. when varied denominations start to diffuse and dis/appear. leaving be. the hind legs of spain. and i.
miss talking without reservations. wearing my heart on my sleeves. with pride. even if it means at the world’s disapproval or disappointment. loving and still being able to feel on top of the world. cant remember when or where. how or why. exactly. from a security guard i became a waiter. and now. a litterbug. many would question maybe even despise my choices of livelihoods. but as a professional survivor. i owed a duty of care not to the many but to just one sole heart and mind. the soul of wellness to the being. my.
hands are small but theyre all i have. and im shedding every colour on them to find a pigment of truth in these uncertain times and unreliable mimes. up against me. faith has never been so fickle. time has never been so loud. routes have never been so uprooting. im giving up the handfull that i was. for every thing that isnt everything. to be in a point of no undivided returns. afterall.
it is but only. love.
current aural of going - How To Save A Life by The Fray.
the overhauling of information has been a most sumptuous driving force. for rape. the Q stripped from topia was the worst or some may argue. the only. cause for that unbelievable display of racket. it now seems. and i realised after too long that i had gotten it all not too wrong. but very wrong. nonetheless. how the lack of explanations was a medium of fuck sessions to the minds. and the extended communications a means to intend and premeditate ways to keep people to one’s self (huh?). how the time out/away needed was not the existence of already problems between two but a campfire in a ship of more than two relations. how a slap was regretfully (mine too) retracted for another’s grace. and by that same grace spreaded palm wide to touch me in that all too familiar spanish laughter now nothing but a sick stench of musical chairs.
the 3 endearing calls that one night before the sun would rise again in the most foreign land. giving the most absurd of reasons to go hand in hand with the most extreme of actions. i drew a line so clear you could almost smell the pain from the taste choking in your throat. that night. i crashed. and single handedly crushed everything that was a hand in need. for a pair of feet indeed. like a tumour that needed to be surgically removed to be gone. that same self medicated surgery was brewed with darted at and then spat on. but no i did not have the audacity to even go remotely close to wishing for a rainbow aftermath much less for people to stay. still. two steps behind. the way it made not passerbys but “friends?” point their piercing tongues and say “that brat doesnt deserve it” (edited for suitability to the young). with a true blue Jane Doe who like Ursula have revealed a whole new world to this little mermaid. those pair of feet have indeed cost her nothing. but her voice.
no please. dont even try being that voice for her. unless you wanna be enraved into solitude asylum or political suicide.
the people that moved on/away/out. myself included. made choices and ultimately decisions based on the content of the truest (and some hardest) individual emotions. something that alliance and convenient verbal diarrhoea can never comprehend. which you people have completely and concernly distorted and reduced it to a pathetic drama web only to now say how tired you are not for spinning the web but for getting caught in it.
you were hungry. for enlightenment. on why there were so little hands left reaching into your cookie jar and touching your spanish heartstrings. you took one harmless (no matter what was thought/felt/said. nothing was actually DONE. so its harmless what) bite at the most convenient hand. a hand that was also in the equation of perfect weekends and trusty red walls that you remember.
so they said they left. by virtually replacing the face with a foot in the common book. cus they said. they were tired of everything. i wonder who gave them shit too. like the ones actually (made) involved got.
current aural of contrafiction - You And Your Hand by Pink.
