The anxiety spreads onto the sheets we lay and on all the men we are infidel with, turning back to the other and watching each other’s curves and how the wrinkles are supposed to grow and how ages catch up on one or the other, who diets and who had drank enough caffeine, who had bought eyeshadow the last week and who leans in for a kiss. And it all became a struggle where the love is overworn and the taste similar to gum which I’ve been chewing for an hour straight is what she would tell me, but it was like a song on an never ending loop, only she’s the one leading in her heels, my flats always thrown out, my height never showing the dominance and her bony figure adapted to the diet and the jealousy spread out and no longer we greet each other in airports.
So the question is why do we even try?
How can you even try when the person you love the most isn’t the one who does back and it’s not a question of polyamory or her own fidelity, but herself as she raises from the bathtub and she wraps herself in the towel, is about to leave the room and curses, hastily opening every drawer for a box of cigarettes I presume and soon enough I wrap myself in a different one and we get her cigarettes as she lights one for herself. Her own hate and love dwells in her eyes.
“I don’t even know what I want myself.”
“Maybe that is your problem.” And we would take the bracelets off, but we don’t. It’s been too many years and the gum still tastes.
“Yet you are the person which will buy the right amount of roses for the dead.” She snarls as we wait for our bodies to dry naturally, never sharing the cigarette, just letting the smoke intertwine without any of us touching our natural attractions, never letting ourselves burn together with the sole belief that we can do this alone and that a lit cigarette is a lost life and we’ve lost ours.
I think love doesn’t go lifeless, so what is the feeling that we had killed? Is it some curse or disaster due to difference?
Watching her smoke feels like I’ve got the recipe for disaster, that I know what to do and who to pull. That all her charm had been whispered by confidence with the love I once held, just as she had smoked, looking differently and wrapping her in covers just to reveal herself young and confused now.
I wish I had known more but many things are solely beyond my reach, more simple actions taking place than average thinking of where to go and what to say.
It’s loving a person that never was. Maybe you can’t fall in love with a person if you change them for your lonely needs. I feel as if I had been doing an experiment of enforcing John Rymer to be female and I shudder, how I had gone around speaking of her gender, because she had mused on it only for her in years to shove that we had been a girl/boy band to my own irony, as if everyone who I had known had gone back tp their assigned gender, killing off the persona they had been with me.
The death of Nancy Boy had spread out in some more vile death of androgyny, because I had been far too angry and my choice of medication had numbed out everything at the time to make me seem harmless and to proceed doing somersaults and feeling the world at my feet only to realize that it was never seeing who I had love but the confusion of the self. Dismantling everyone including myself to see one’s misery and lack of life. Maybe I had been the lifeless one, wondering how much had I wasted own’s life?
Fear of not knowing what was happening was even deeper and would strike the bone far more than expected, it was no longer numbness due to a dream, but the harsh jaw of reality giving one’s problems.
Sex becomes more of a mind’s chore if you dissociate yourself from it, if you even close your eyes on yourself, you’re your own enemy for allowing yourself not to feel anything and gain no pleasure.
It’s so obscure that it seems to boil down to gender, because I’m not the one calling the shots anyway, if she were to speak of the differences, it would be Alison rather than myself these days, because I had decided that a bad peace is better than cutting each other off and this waltz was no longer a waltz at all.
We will never admit the love we’ve had, because nothing goes away, we all leave traces whether it’s in someone’s heart, ashtray or land. And love will spring into branches of regrets because it becomes up to us to actually like the love we have or not. You’ll never stop the grass from growing, but you can always pretend it never exists and as long as you live, you’ll keep slipping, because somewhere deep down you want to act on the love you’ve gained and the misery you’ve shared, because by the end of the day it is us which decide to have fear, as if the growth never changes.
It’s as if you should never say I love you to someone else, because the wind still blows and all will be twisted from one’s fear. We are the ones who strangle ourselves from our own fear and I don’t know why we waltz with any regards to ourselves, anxiety becomes a shallow strain as we start thinking on the lunch.
And looking at her properly, entirely naked as myself, as if we had regained some lost deja vu, as if this would the postcard of the feeling and we were trying to find the love we had told ourselves we sold for photos, all memories now forgotten and erased as we would try and stay from each other, to make sure we die without thinking of the other. I sometimes wonder how much regret should I hold by pulling her by the string and never understanding how many layers she’s got and how many have I even been under, listening to her and reminiscing on my own past, which she’s now discarded.
And loving her seems more than futile, because I don’t know who I’m loving.
Yet, she’s the one dragging it all, so take all actions as speech then. We end up dressing up silently and browsing through the small cd section until I stop at a best of Blur, which is a bit typical, but pleasant to find.
“I don’t think anyone doesn’t like Blur, besides my ex and rabid Oasis fans.”
“How come they didn’t like Blur?”
“I don’t know but they told me that late, when we were dating, so I couldn’t do anything.” I chuckled.
“What about your other exes?” She says it stingily, as if reminding me of some dark secrets I’ve hidden, but mostly just not talk about like I wouldn’t speak of my past in front of a flashing light just not to get it reminded in the tabloids at all times while walking around and then feel it printed as if on the back of my hand. And she knows of all the things I’ve hidden and somehow it becomes a big deal if you’ve slept with a man and I wonder how come the fear is so deeply penetrating for some reason that it ended up keeping her awake, thinking that I would leave her for a man? And when it’s around five a.m. you wonder why even is there a fear of man, why is there a fear of women if someone who I thought was queer would tell me that? Would I even have fear and why do we think we can be the better of our gender but not the best of another gender?
And how come we would have to create different things and cling onto how we had once driven around all over the states, laughing at the run out gas, because now when the ashes are blown away and I can think of all the places we’ve toured I can only think of the love we hold and all the times we’ve pinned each other against the wall before opening the car windows and letting the wind become the scented scarves of an argument so that if we step outside of the plane we would know what we had thought and I wondered how long would it take death to erase our skull memories entirely?
And why do you have to paint love and how come we’re always miserable and love can never cure us? Sometimes I don’t understand the laughter we’ve had and how come we had managed to read each other’s emotions so carefully to just shatter, break, fall apart and end up doing nothing at all.
We also need to remember that we are here because we want to be, we all need to understand that we are alive because we simply want to be alive and as daft as it is there is nothing else to decide or to tell why it so happens to be so. Because we’ve always pulled through anything we’ve ever done and we’ve contradicted ourselves to the point that I had thought that I would love her forever. I’ve contradicted myself enough to end up in her arms year after year until I couldn’t feel her at all anymore or even know her and whenever one apologizes it so happens that you believe that the person you’ve loved is back.
And all the scents and tastes of her chapped lips will go from place to place, reminding everything and every fear which had tingled from my body as either of us have wrapped the other around as a safe house. I remember how angry we had been at each other for missing the ferry in Sweden long ago, how we had started screaming and for a few years I’d recall because I could never forget her face and how much I had wished that no one had seen us, even in an argument, because I didn’t want to share her with anyone. It ended up being as if obsessive, but I had just loved her and no matter how much water I drank I couldn’t dissolve it and when you’re cheated or betrayed the love doesn’t go away, because like death you always think the person will come back.
She still goes through the CDs as Blur keeps playing and I just inspect the house which still screams bizarrely intimacy as if there was never enough. I look around the room with the love things scattered and heart filled backgrounds. She barely looks at me and I just want no regrets from her, because I’ve never told her that I recall that screaming because nothing was ever ugly. All was just a memory, which I’ve taken away. You can never say I love you too much, that’s why we fight.
Alison angrily goes through the DVDs now, not enjoying the content or at least trying not to as she had already chosen three different titles or maybe they’re rubbish worthy and that’s the pile.
I know that on the worst of days I’ll have her and on other worst days I won’t. That’s why it becomes as if you’re living with a friend rather than a lover, because you’ll hide everything until it’s done because you’ll never hear a soft word unless you’re breaking down, as if it’s a seesaw with her and her platforms on the other side and I don’t know why she’s playing alone again.
I don’t want to even tell her, as she just keeps going through all of the DVDs and it makes more than sense that by the end of the day it’s never the rooms which hold us, but it’s us which should be fixing anything from start to finish and maybe it doesn’t even matter where do we start, but we need to do anything, yet the problem is what do we even want? Have we reached the final stage where we no longer want each other and our love has withered? And was it even ever the love we had always wanted, because moving out for both of us was breathing inside with everything? Was it always like this when you don’t know where you’ve lost your love, not even for the person in question but for everyone else?
So where does love go?
I took a day longer because I was knackered and frankly I still am knackered and I've even napped twice today. Basically, I wanted this out really badly and I was awfully sad in general today. Also, I felt awful that this hasn't been updated in nearly a year when I've been writing it rather often so yeah. But alas, here it is finally.
I think it's more of an in-depth analysis as usual when it comes to The Kills and Alison is androgynous to me, so I use it obviously, I'm not sure how it is now but it's the Alison I stick with or how I thought Alison would age, if you must.
I don't know what to write, because I wrote it rather often nearly line a day really, because I love them and my emotions was more about story telling these two and how odd it is to still be in love with someone you're no longer with, I can't say I share these emotions today or have in a while, but y'know we've all had it in different ways and there's a reason this is story telling.
Regarding backstories, I remember I just asked people around and everyone said that my backstories were always good when I just started this blog, that's why they're always here and I'm sorry if this one will be short or less interesting, but I really do just open the laptop, think of things and start writing these days, I guess something like I've wanted, just story telling rather than painfully nagging which is something I do in stories like Thicker Than Blood (guess what's being written then xD) or Mimosa.
I still find it funny that this was supposed to be the light Kills story and look at it now but it does have comedy elements and will proceed, don't worry xD
I won't recall why I wrote it down, but my ex confessed to me not liking Blur and I had a similar conversation to Callie about it.
I still think writing it, just like any story is a big part of thinking yourself, really. Not lying.
I liked that story where they get stuck in Sweden due to the ferry for five hours and there's a photo and Alison is wearing a Weekday tote bag and they're the best brand ever and very trans friendly from my experience and the whole store is unisex and all fits are lovely. Anyway, so I love that photo and story coz I can relate to it naturally since I live in Sweden so yeah.
The DVD thing reminded of Alison nagging that she hates rom coms and in another interview Jamie was saying how she had rented them all when he was working on the album.
I don't know where does the love go or why does it stay for that matter.
Thank you and I hope you enjoyed it, tell me if you did