Tuesday, 31 March 2015

mimosa 2

March always reminds me of the awkwardness when you're back in school and you can't properly take off your coat, so you end up carrying it like the rest of the school year and as eyes go by, March ends up being just as idle with our own fuck ups of wanting to make it more exciting. All months are dull, we are the fuck ups. And when it comes to today's March it's because it's filled with the same regret, time badly spend, like in school, like in love.

And I’m reminded of the break up with the catsuit, as if it were something close to that again and no dice are even rolled, as if I would walk away from a woman again, confused and this time it’s a bit different than from holding onto beliefs and desires which would never seem to be fulfilled, it just becomes a reminder that there is always something dull and some break up will be less messy, some won’t have that much yelling, broken plates never escalate into disasters of two men not talking and life is far too simple to put everything in boxes, as I sit on the swing, breathing in the air which promises snow tomorrow. 

And if all were to collapse, what do you even say to yourself?

What do you even write about now, when all ideas are dry and eventually deadlines will start rolling and the night is much more than shallow and desire to simply end up giving candy to whomever, as if all could be bought just proves how simple everything is. 

The desire to spread oneself as shards and it’s much harder than detachment. Confusion becomes the soul of the streets and disaster that I’ll never know myself and the feeling of being so small never strangled me so much as loneliness and no contacts on the phone to call, while holding a cigarette, phone against the ear and shoulder. Credits never roll, we go on and no one really tips at the blade of suicide that often anyway. Instead we all wither. Is suicide even a way out when there’s nothing? Wouldn’t that just be a plain transfer?

It’s as if you can’t capture anything in songs anymore, because the person who people see me as becomes no longer myself and the desire to tell who you are is far from flattering. A role is easier when you can’t stand yourself, because if you hate who you are to people, it’s easier to hate even deeper, cutting without the scalpel to see nothing inside of the body, anyway. And if I bang my head against a tree, I would forget it all, thankfully. I smoke instead, pushing myself up into the air, a bit anxious on how would people take someone nearing their thirties on a swing when people usually walk dogs here, as if children never existed. Maybe it’s because we killed them all.

Women started revolting me like cut down flowers from the amusement that it’s men’s faults when they’re the ones which raise sons and end up taking rugs from between men and by the end of the day Mishima doesn’t seem so radical. Anyone who fails to accept you and grabs you by the collar because you looked at a man instead of her skinny legs and told me that they would split my veins open-

I would split theirs too

But I think torture is a bigger crime than death

Therefore let them watch as they see other men with men and they cry into their motherfucking granolas never gaining weight because they think if they’re slim enough to hide behind a broom, I would love the thin air, because they hold an even lesser value. 

It makes more than obvious state to bathe in solitude, as if it’s always supposed to be that way, as you lie in bed and you get told that gay men produce the most beautiful of art because they are miserable and that’s when you see opinions blossom and actually emphasize on what happens on later. Because it’s always as if the regret is placed far onto the shoulders which are supposed to build into some wings, even if I have intense vertigo of flying and why is solitude never called misery or loneliness these days?

And I decide to buy alcohol on the way home and see how much will I consume on the way back, musing on how much had anything changed, seeing nothing as if the streets always go back to the 1950s and the fear remains to the core, hard enough to bite and easy to just shatter teeth against it. 

We will never admit love to the people we’ve lost or wrap our head around when do we stop, and how selfish it is of us to never talk and try to amend something. I’m selfish for never wanting to dance his dance and expecting him to dance mine.

I just end up wanting him to know that I’ve never stopped loving him if there is a cold gun pressed against my lip, as the snow grazes March again and Miles is the one pointing at me with all his fear and homophobia lashes through our system because our misery and desire to do the most natural seems like an easy sin, because loving women had always been so hard. And I would exclaim that I never stopped loving him. But for one, besides the gun because he would wish that he could get over the love which consumes him and thrashes him on a morning and the dawn on night, the misery counting the pain and sharpness of the stars, that our love is a hedgehog. But we’ve left in on the shelf, because we thought love was an innocent thing like a stuffed toy, not a prickly living thing which leaves trails of each other’s blood in our hands, reminding us that we have sinned as brothers just to toy with our mind, because accepting love to a man is harder, because it becomes more genuine for us, apparently. And then the pain of solitude becomes more realistic, because when one hates themselves pain is an easy solution.

We never give up on love, we give up on ourselves or each other, because we can’t stand swimming in someone else’s blood this spring, when snow pollutes the city again, reminding that the past is closer then tomorrow, because we never let go and never accept.

Being lonely feels like being a crushed fruit, where the juice seeped through the pores of the skin, leaving it shrunken, withered, somehow alive and serving a purpose which the fruit seems to disagree with. I push my legs against the ground to gain flight and I know that all comes to an end and that’s funny to say, when the day will go on, giving the torch to another one to repeat in a different way. Life becomes a mirrored repetition with disasterous weather raining on tomorrow’s mirrored from the back reflection and I say that in a room full of mirrors and the sky being the globe. Loneliness is a silk glove among the lips, becoming some temporary state of solitude. Maybe that’s self-acceptance.

It’s hard to let go of someone who never loved you. I need to stop crying about the trees. 


It’s not that it’s entirely over, the point of mimosa is that it goes on. Yeah, writing-wise I think I’m done with it, but it’s not the end really. I had no intention properly of continuing but I ended up thinking far too much and writing well parts of a second chapter which frankly wouldn't be able to fit anywhere else and I figured to go ahead with it and I figured maybe a few more chapters and it's a rather solely Alex centric story which frankly I haven't done any character solely centric ones as I always have someone end up with someone or have a relationship take the spotlight, so it was rather nice to do those. And I kind of getting yanked out of reality when I'm depressed, manic or have a mixed episode so it ends up rather isolating in the head and that's why a lot of mimosa was born obviously and thinking and musing other relations with Callie, like I usually do.

And March is a weird month for me coz I ended up dating a disaster many years ago and I broke up last year with my ex on March and if I could recall the exact dates I think it happened on the same date. So March is rather weird and always feels like a weird graveyard and it's not really April yet which is frankly jumping to my birthday xD And kind of working I think with my derealization a bit down, it feels weird to be grown up I guess, kind of being more in control, it's surely a good thing, but it's really weird to see how much things really change and I guess that's what March is about. I had started writing the beginning of the chapter back in a sort of playground to be honest.

Another 'inspiration' was frankly Alex's excuse me but poor lyrics in Vertigo. I've really said it, it feels like a really bad repetition of lyrics because he can't really go writing I dunno your cigarette breath and freshly pressed suit and whatever. So we've got a fucking catsuit going around and around, ugh.

I get rather torn from reality and I get random paranoias or fears like the fact of waiting for everything or days in general, so I tried to push it out there. And in general I think I write explictly in this story that the backstory is more like, yeah, I said that there xD

I got angry at tumblr, so I ranted, I kept it. By Mishima being radical, he's got this... stingy phrase which sticks to me and I've quoted, he said that women stand in the way of creation and art and that really got to me and it ended being metaphorical, because I couldn't come out, so it ended up meaning a lot to me but I twist it and use it for frankly what he had said it really.

I was thinking the other day how angry I was at different issues like weight and I realized that it thankfully doesn't apply to me anymore and a gender which is fucking content with idolizing such homophobes (specifically towards lesbians) as Emma Watson I decided that well, it's not exactly my fight, I will still rant, but I kind of became less angry since it's women who shoot themselves in the foot, don't get me wrong, I hate her guts and if I could I would yell at her. So the rant went that direction due to the whole skinny obsession which is just toxic and everyone loses weight dramatically and the whole expectation of having to be into women regardless of who you are was getting on my nerves. It's frankly a hateful paragraph but if women can vent, so can I for fuck's sake. And I do acknowledge it's harsh, but it's an eye for an eye of what I've read and my own venting. 

I got told that gay men produce art because they're miserable. Not really, but I can't argue much against it, either, because I do write when I reach my lows mentally health-wise.

Sexuality is very complex and I think that's why I like the whole loving men and women sentence, coz it's rather odd really. And I like Mimosa for it's constant Milex thrill through. 

The last phrase came to me and I was thinking to do a 3rd chapter and Callie suggested to stick it in, so here it is, making the ending even angstier, but like I said mimosa doesn't really ends, the writing does. I want to go on with more couple, relationship stories, but I might always pick it up, but for now, we're good



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