Wednesday, September 26, 2012

The boisterous tunes I previously preferred now sound to me a painful cacophony of adolescent wining, un-educated vocalists and poor lyricists. I am getting older and have aged much in a day. The young fashionable kids and the life of the "scene" hold no lure for me now. I would rather tuck my feet into the sand with my poetry, and let the words of the great modernists wash over me, painting in painful colors my own disillusionment.

Oh I've been deceived by that trickster, the moon. The flash of the lights at night, and the lights in your eyes. I've been drinking deeply of the fountain of promises and coming up dry each time. There is no fountain of youth, and in fact, this liquid is aging me faster than I had hoped. The night freezes my insides like a frost transforms the morning dew, and each outline of a wrinkle reminds me that I still long for that elusive "you". The you I have met and left, or turned over ten thousand times. The you I have forgotten and the you whose name twists into a hundred heads popping out of every street corner.

In 60 years or so (for none of us truly know) I will be on my deathbed, clutching Prufrock's love song to my heart. Soon, and sooner than I wish to admit, wrapped in a miasmal mist, these words will sing me to sleep. And then what great adventure will I meet?
Alas, this final question is the only one of any importance, and the one that I can find the answers for least of all.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

"Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is know to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is the belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water."

-The Wasteland

Monday, September 24, 2012

It is a terrible thing to be in love. 
Our cigarette smoke billows out the open window as I watch another friend battle through a break-up. Fairy tales have fucked us. We are told in our most impressionable youths that we must find someone else to complete us. Why can't we just be whole? 

Shadows of the past and what might have been haunt the living.
"Footfalls echo in the memory
 Down the passage which we did not take
 Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. 

My words echo thus in your mind."

Why live in a shade? Why calculate your life around what might have been? Everything happens for a reason. We are where we are meant to be. It doesn't take someone else to make you whole. Nothing is stable, nothing is lasting. You can never rely on anyone's presence other than your own. Why not complete yourself until you find your compliment? 

"Men these days are all palaver and what they can get out of you." Says Lilly, the caretakers daughter. Gabriel gave her two pence, it being Christmas and all. 
We are the living, dead to those around us.

"I should have been a pair of ragged claws."

Saturday, September 15, 2012

None of us really know what we want, but we look nonetheless. Perusing shop isles and scanning the faces at the bar, we stop like inquisitive ravens only to inspect whatever temporarily dazzles our eye. Yet, amongst everything in this paltry life with its nugatory necessities, I have most of all yearned for some shade of meaning. 

In these moments of uncertainty my mind always returns to you, eternal goaler, allowing you to safe-guard my deepest dissatisfaction. I delight in my own despair with every click of the finger that brings me one letter closer to you. Tapping through distance on this little screen I incessantly hope for a brief moment to transcend the haunted past. I know I cannot. 

I know then, you are not what I want. My past is showered in icy blue eyes saying words I know they do not mean. One moment lit in a ray of light, the next, shaded in a moment of dark passion. You know what you want even less than I do. It was my darkest day when I thought I wanted you.

Monday, September 10, 2012

"I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words"
In the proper mood, a matter of minutes can make you lonely. Cut out papers and half read books lay scattered along my floor. Burning candles and incense smoke billow out into tiny celestial clouds disappearing into my ceiling. Is this my heaven or is this my haven? Hiding behind books is a specialty of mine, peeping into others people's romances to forget the absence of my own. Great, a Jane Austin class. Just what I need. I don't mean to say I don't have a life. I have plenty of other ways of forgetting monotony. I try to jazz things up as much as possible at all costs. It's these little moments, these tiresome ticking hours after days with smiling rambunctious faces, that remind me we are all inevitably alone. In the proper mood, anything can make me lonely. All the silly words and smiling faces cannot peep into my mind. Perhaps that is why, in moments such as these, I write.