Thursday, 24 April 2014

PDD or Hypoxyphilia 2

Everyone seems to be talking about heartbreak and it’s mostly heterosexual, where the guy left for some obscure reason which I am usually not interested as everyone just sips their beverage and I just would look around, wondering when can I leave as I observe Alison. 
In the end you end up with females, anyway, regardless, something attracts you, maybe it’s the simplicity or being the asshole whispered as that ex who for some reason thought that leaving you and crying over someone who left for someone more feminine and that the granola bar will save you. I feel like I’m being dragged over. 
It’s not even that your sexuality is fluid, it’s your stupidity which is fluid. 
It’s the subconscious desire to please this whole belief that you might just be heterosexual after all, eyes closed, because when one gender fucks it up you flee to the other, cringing at all people from said gender which hurt you.
Yeah, you’ll drag yourself to a gay bar to see everyone who has lipstick or in drag resemble Brian, I’ll just leave, cocktail left and hyperventilate, out on the street, get myself in an alley, close my ears, crouch and pray for him to leave, stop watching me with not even existing in my reality.
People don’t talk about that heartbreak, where you’ll be seen as the asshole because you left the one who the media prefers, the one who will be crying in the granola bar, so every time I fucking see people passing that book around, I just wanna say
It’s you. It wasn’t him.
He shouldn’t have been with an idiot who thinks that the masculine crop was at fault, that will cry into the granola, 
You’re the one so full of yourself that you idolize shallowness and it keeps going around my head with the book hitting shelves and I just don’t ask Alex anything. I just watch it dissolve as millions of girls think that they should be shallow and do nothing. And that the boy will come.
And in some ways I end up being that boy and every time I see Alison mumble, I cringe. 
I am the person people cry over with granola bars because I just couldn’t stand someone who wanted me in a specific box and not care about what else is happening, to shut myself off and just exist.
It’s not even that-
The alarm clock brings everyone to life and it’s just a lazy queue to the bathroom, as some just blindly apply eyeliner and the smoke still in the air and the smell of beer and bottles rattling around as I wake. I choose to get dressed, not really bothered to be there on time, dressing up with a cigarette, holding small talk through the string of everyone’s hangover wondering how many faces will I forget tomorrow. It’s weird to catch yourself within the moment when you realize that all of this will be more faded and bleak as a photograph and at the moment I’m not sober enough to treasure my place in the queue. 
First love is an odd thing, the one which actually consumes you and when you have moments when you recall the person before you loved, when they looked average, just like Brian had, standing alone, slightly tugging on his scarf, eyes closed and lips dragging in the cigarette.
I had walked up to him, while he was smoking, plainly to bum a cigarette and he just stretched me one, confidence all stripped bare, leaving the soon to never be teenager in spite. 
I had barely stripped him bare from the dust in my memory to speak in the lightest way fondly and I had only spoken to Alison about him once, when he had been on and we had been pacing around the room, both of us chain smoking the same cigarettes passed around. He had seemed to be looking right ahead, head now shaved, eyes sunken with some old odd grief which I had seen when I was leaving him, still too much love held for himself. 
Alison just kept looking at the screen, my own fear of telling some distant past to make me cry more important than changing the channel, until he had admitted to drop his act of being fluid, feminine as he had put it, changing from one day to another, one month slightly alike the one six months ago and now he was all chucking it out, grinning, broken and daft.
I had just headed out and muttered a few things under my breath, Alison following and just understanding that I had hated his guts, never close to the fact that I had loved something Brian never was. 
Brian had smiled, watching me still in yesterday’s platforms which I had noticed had been new. 
The continuation of coming back pounces on you, like a sadistic snake which will never bite you, it trails after you, just because you think it does. 
Class had already started, but his eyes kept gleaming at me, hair chopped right where his neck would end and he seemed to grin at me, his features reminding me of some fox, which believes itself to be brave, yet just has something harming. 
“Have you ever been attracted to other men?” Brian raises his eyes, blowing smoke in my face, but the wind gets it the other way and I just smirk, as he just keeps his look, a light chuckle as he drags the cigarette in again. 
How does it feel to cut your essence?
I’ve been to hell and it was scary. 
It’s not even that the question baffles me, it’s more of being in a time where it’s wrong even if the stage is glittering with fairies and homosexuality being far more modern than the idea of rightness for nature’s mistakes.
Love destroys you, the wrong kind of love where you give yourself blindly, feeling that it’s fated to fail and it consumes you.
There’s too many descriptions of love with anxiety at the throat when the colour of the lover is long gone, but the image is still baffling your mind.
Love destroys you.
It just keeps shattering and you can’t come out being the same person, you’ll hate the person you had given, making it more personal than anything, some higher form of self-loathing which keeps trailing on and on. 
Knowing he’s watching you is something dissolving, it’s like a one-way mirror, you know they’re watching but you can’t see their expression regardless of how much you’ll pound against the damn thing and also the problem is that you just don’t pound anyway, everyone’s lips shut and the mirror still intact, because they’re the ones who put it there. 
It’s eerie knowing when you step on stage, knowing that he’ll be watching, different, skinnier, all the snake skin now shed, revealing the flesh underneath and you know there is a feeling of blind adoration otherwise Brian wouldn’t be here and I keep glancing at the blind crowd, my forever one-way mirror as I keep glancing at Alison, who has no idea.
Love shatters you.
No one tells you about the love which you have to leave, it’s always the girl who faked, a fucking groupie with no intentions only jumping from one man to another, believing in herself when she’s the blank silence on the other side. 
Love shatters hope.
I dye my hair, I grow it, I trim my nails, all actions continue being done and I am the one who also peels off the skin, just to avoid touch with myself, I want to detach myself from myself for going as love as blind as love. It’s a new form of self-loathing, loving someone ignorant
you don’t
the anxiety rises within, there is love for the void, the fact that you had loved someone they weren’t and it rides within you. anxiety, shredding, deadly
waking you up in the middle of the night, claustrophobia of open spaces, not feeling edges, because you’re getting better
but the cycle continues, creaking between despair and detachment. 
I look at the crowd.
Void, release me.
I don’t want you anymore and I don’t care if you do, because I’ve never loved the real you. 
You just caught me at the wrong time, when I didn’t know myself and you knew how to play with someone you admire, something you will never be, because you’re 
the void,
I don’t want anymore. 
Anyone, just not you. 
Maybe you’re not even a void anymore, you’re a line
which doesn’t cross my dots anymore. 
But I see you. 
And I just lower my eyes.
Maybe you are still the void.
I honestly don’t know.
All I know is that I’m no longer drowning, yanked out of water, as if we never dated, because we didn’t, I don’t know you without your skin,
I don’t know your death of nancy boy, because I know mine
It’s still me, just me.
With the void you won’t fill, because
my mind is blank, but trust me it’s more filled
than you will ever be
and your death of me
is all that describes you, Brian.
(Not to be confused with the void, my void is the absence of anyone).

Let go of me, my void. 

I won't deny that this ended up being more personal than it should've been explicitly, well, it is, so yeah, here we go.

I guess a huge inspiration or rather what had forced me to write was pretty much my anger towards everyone on tumblr sulking over some lost love and specifically Alexa Chung's IT has been ticking me off horridly and triggering me, because frankly I don't want someone with their shallow cringe views making the worse even more stereotypical and shallow than it is. So yeah, the whole idea that supposedly the victim is the one who gets dumped and well, no one really looks at why the fuck did the other person leave, exactly. I want to puke if I see any other heartbreaking quote from IT, I've grown so fucking sick of Alexa Chung's shallowness that I dropped all requests, sorry, you want heartbreak, fucking read this and proudly chew on your granola bar.

When I got dumped the first time for a girl with longer hair, what did I do?

I fucking went and chopped it all off and still have been with short hair because the person should love me for who I am, maybe that's why after the recent heartbreak I also accepted my male side finally and yeah. 

I think in general the theme of the story is fucking falling in love with an Alexa Chung, someone shallow and sometimes I feel terrible for implying that Brian is so, but this is fiction, so we'll see, but yeah, here's my anger and frustration and looks like Brian fucked it up badly with Jamie. 

You keep musing the break in your head, your void really. 

Also I'll see about Brian's identity as he has mused over it in the past, so we'll see and I guess I'm excited to have a non-binary character even if they're not the most positive, I mean, not all should be positive.

I think everything speaks for itself. 

People are wankers and I got ticked off because I'm not sure but I thought that my ex started following me again through some other blog so I got really ticked off and yeah, this happened, also the analogies with Brian's "death of nancy boy" is given because frankly Placebo is a redone Scarfo, so yeah.

Also the concert is in 2008 or so Brian went to see The Kills perform. 

Sometimes people just need to learn to fuck off.

I hope you enjoyed it and please tell me if you did, as I frankly love the story and I've been pouring my soul out and I guess all I could say about real heartbreak not some plastic white cis girl trash.



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