yearning for what doesn't feel like pain
If time is an illusion, then so are memories.
Image Credit: Jonas Mekas, As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty (2000)
I remember crashing my best friend’s living room in the summer of 2016, soaking in the lavender scent of slow-burning candles whilst cuddling her two kittens Milo and Weetbix, doing our homework and then writing songs together. These are moments I’ve locked into the golden archives of my heart. A place I retreat to, seeking refuge during times like these, when the world is against me, or so it certainly feels like. If time is an illusion, then so are memories, like a shuffled scrapbook in order of whatever fancies my delusionary comforts, and how I choose to arrange them is entirely up to me. And to whomever that finds this, you have no choice but to lend faith to my construction of this world. But do you trust me? Nostalgia is a dirty liar, and so am I.
So where do these moments escape to? Why isn’t Happiness a butterfly and why can’t I hold her in the grandest of captivities where I can live with her forever? People say time is the greatest healer of all, which is such bullshit. A failure at attempting to comfort the grieving. Time is cruel. Of course I am hopeful that this reality is but a sliver of my nightmares, and when I awaken I will be freed from all anguish. But until I awaken (if I do), I must puncture my thoughts somewhere tangible so as to capture a trace of my being.
Perhaps I’m writing to feel at ease, some disillusioned sordid sense of sanity before my mind eventually consumes me. I must’ve been martyred by this thing they call love. But I’m a writer darling, you know I don’t cry. I bleed onto these very sheets of paper that are my sole companions. To me, these words acknowledge that I am broken, which means there also was a time when I wasn’t broken and I knew happiness, and that is what I continue pining for.
It’s just another mourning,
A funeral held for a heart that’s marred
And a soul that’s scarred
When she sings of things she wants to say to you
Like if you held her without hurting her
You’d be the first who ever did
But she didn’t dare tell you how she let you swim
In that ocean of blissful ignorance that was filled to the fucking brim
From years and years of earnest tears.
Woke up to another morning
Wondering if I’d be any cleaner today
From your hurt which covers my skin,
And these cuts which feel like the piercing sin
Of your burning, scathing ignorance
And my yearning, grace and innocence.