In a darkly dreaming reality, she’d place him: the heart rending song of silence and regret. See the monotones in this over-played, dully acted opera, where the range of rage of beautiful but gutless prima donna causes, if anything a soporific ennui.
She wants to remain a three thousand piece puzzle that never got assembled, never got figured out for the fragmentation colours her existence and completion obliterates her.
All women are mothers in one way or the other, but those who choose to adopt 25 year old babies, instead of pushing someone out their vagina or breastfeeding command commemoration. The degree of denial, and the heights to which you can lower your vanity to, may not be something that thrills me, but on some fucked up meter that measures these, that is some fucking achievement.
Some sentences love repetitions, some stories need to be re-told.
And the perception of these mechanical permutations, these told and retold old fables, the label of a cliché and stereotypes, escapes from it. After a while, we pantomime interpretations, and with elusive new awakenings ensure the survival of our bloody becoming in the cesspit of love and all things great—A hilarious subterfuge, but still what a shining dust of undead clichés.
On a lighter note, amidst all the cigarette burns, and a broken nose, what is that she ever did different? Was asked about reason. Did deny the significance. Did close her eyes. Did fall in love. Did deny. Did live in between. Did choose to value distance. And how and why would it ever matter to ME: a motherless child. It shouldn’t. And was I ever deluded myself as a messiah?... Nah, never was interested in being the savior, and never could be. It may be the patterns I hate, maybe, but that shouldn’t be about me. After all, I am writing about denial, I can choose denial and not all writing should be mirrored in self and then written again.
The infinity of vanity, and disgrace, means an insurmountable calculation of relative parameters to decide what constitutes which. And then existing in between, neither here nor there but itinerant, an amorous whisper between triads of slander, a gentle kiss between angered fists, a few words that imitate care, when venom tastes sweet, words, words, words without their meaning, nay, hope none, buts let’s hope for, comfort none but that comforts us, visions none of either guardian angels or spirit sancti or the devil in splendor, swimming in the intensity and stench of libels, with forgotten promises of care, multifarious collections of a thousand wounds and minute memories of a penis and making love, when she felt so revered as mother of her lover followed by another go at strangulation, and somehow something in between made it worth it?
She was torn apart. And love will tear her apart again.
For all the pain that’s been inflicted, she may love him more, organs, the fragile and flawless arms and legs that bear the bruises may make her value him more, for what good has been her life, hadn’t for the pain. What good has been the story, if lovers lived happily after?
For immortality or the illusion of it, she needs to be torn apart, to be remembered, to be painted and to be mused about, so he’ll be her Narcissus, and she’ll become his Echo.