With Johnny

With Johnny, she doesn’t see before her a glass that is half empty or half full, but instead resigns grateful in the knowledge that there is a glass before her at all. She knows him more than he will care to admit, even behind the veil of her rose colored glasses. And while she relishes in the warming glow of his love spilling from hushed lips, she does not see it as just a simple victory, as the tide changing on the craggy rocks of his shores. She is still his closed door sin, even if her scripted ‘fuck me’ has melted to tender pleas, and he whispers ‘baby’ in a soft caressing.

Another small fraction from “Internal Affairs.”

Author: Erin Elaine W.

Your hand on my hand.

I’ve been made nostalgic and my stitches are binding threads of longing, my breath is ridden subtly by bitter-sweet melancholia and even when I laugh, sometimes, my eyes hold a distant sadness.

Unlike many, my happy place is a memory. An illusion of laughter and smiles igniting on the faces that I loved, the moments made special, alone and together.

I noticed they define my taste, my favourite things and colors, the music that I hear, the books I read, the movies that I pick, the food that I eat, the leaders that I choose to follow for a while… how I view life through the glass of my window.

 

You define me.

 

You influence my choices with the flavour of reminiscence.

You reflect through me immortal when I favour a scent over another.

You are the difference between meaningless and meaning.

 

And although I find you, I find you… I find you…

You are the face that my dreams are missing.

 

********

 

And there’s such a tragedy in beauty when it withers in a grave.

 

To miss…

 

Being in love with life and the infatuated emphasis of idealisms, the utopian ladder to success when we felt relevant enough to make a worldwide change and we could see it so crisply stretching in our future. When hope trampled every helpless feeling.

 

When we were tall and bigger, with youth and bloated self-importance burning on the hot-plates of our passions till we blistered with so much drive we had to move.

 

To miss…

 

A future that is dimly figured.

My wistful thinking.

Believing even in some crazy metaphysics or the mystifying mystery that twists the end of our definitives with chance and a subtle perhaps.

The magic of cheating reason by closing your eyes to feel something that’s not there.

 

To feel…

 

To feel you scattered everywhere and nowhere to be seen.

 

To need…

 

The sound your laughter made when we were talking about life and our human contradictions while we studied psychology in the kitchen of your house.

 

To feel…

 

Your hand on my hand through the glass of my window when I play pretends its there like you taught me in our graduation summer when you felt like building moments out of nothing.

 

To need…

 

Your hand on my hand and no longer find it.

 

*********

 

To Run.

Like so many other people maybe, she woke up that day thinking. I need to run. It is not about running per-say, is just the emotion, to run.

Irregular Verb – To run.

So what does that mean?

One dictionary said: To move quickly, so that both legs leave the ground. Which is a funny idea, trying to envision both legs leaving the ground in your attempt to run, how do you even do that? It sounded more like jumping up.

Another dictionary said: Act or instance of running, of moving rapidly using the feet. Act or instance of hurrying (to or from a place). A pleasure trip (which didn’t make too much sense). Flight, instance or period of fleeing. Migration.

And then she stopped reading because the rest of them became a bit incoherent.

The thing is, is so hard to define things with such a simple and universal meaning. You can’t. They become a cognitive emotion, a perception.

So is not about what it really means, which is just a contraction of muscles, blood pumping faster through your veins until you feel the heat coursing like a million sparking pyres through your limbs, and even your lungs burn at some point with air you cannot catch well enough while you propel yourself on the streets, on a track, in a park, down the road, wherever. To arrive faster from one point to another. To run, is just an action, but can you see the emotion in it?

Her question morphs into something more like it: Why do you need to run? with the keyword being ‘Need’.

So like so many other people maybe, she wakes up that morning thinking that she wants to run, that she wants to run and never stop running, not because she felt as though she had to escape from where she was, that she had to reach somewhere, but because the need stemmed from the chore of a desperation so deep that the only suitable relief and answer she could fathom for it was… run. Run from it. Just run.

Though how, how do you run from your own desperation?

Ever since, life became a bit frantic.

Is funny to think how an emotion can define your entire existence from the moment you open your eyes, specially when you don’t know what to do with it.

She was ten.

If during the e…

If during the entirety of your growth you’ve been drilled with the fantasy of not being good enough, is hard not to believe it, even if you know it’s a bunch of bullcrap. Frustrations begin to settle cruelly like a constant raw thirst, and after a while you figure… there’s no such thing as enough water to allay, so why bother.
And yet to arrive to that paradoxical moment of recognizing that perhaps, not being good enough may not be a problem, but nothing being good enough for you it is.

That changes things.

~ Quote from “Rocky Roads”

A work in process.

Choking is what…

Choking is what they do, they choke. Chains that smother heavy around their necks for reasons they don’t share, but tonight, she curls her fingers around the rusted links and cracks the padlocks open. Right now you are free, she says, right now you should please me, she says, right now we should fuck, let the world drown us in the insipid arms of liquor until there’s no regret. Right now we touch, skin and muscle rippling under fingers eager to clutch, caress, take.
Right now, just love me, she says, don’t be scared, she says, I’ll forget when morning comes, she says.

So he lets the tension go and love finally respires.

It’s no walk in…

It’s no walk in the park to be addicted to a man like Johnny, and falling in love with him might as well be a trek through uncharted mountainside, in the rain, on a craggy muddy trail with no food and a busted ankle. It hurts, leaves pangs in your chest. But when the clouds clear at the summit, man what a view. Such a high.

This is fraction of a chapter from “Internal Affairs.”

Something that’s being written, something that’s yet not over, something that will keep on rolling!

This is a fraction of something Hattie wrote, and here I am happily sharing it cause I love me some quotes.

I guess, I don’t need to add anything else to it, is pretty self-explanatory and I hope you enjoy as much as I did.

Loss.

Not everyday was a lonely day. Sometimes you were there. With me. Holding me through. Like that very night of worn out insomnia.
I was such a mess, and you softly picked up my shattered pieces, tried to glue me together. I guess you failed, still, I owe you. I am sorry for being so numb.

You had your own set of keys to my apartment, you were the first one to find me, the last one to leave. I still remember how you hauled me up and washed me, you sat with me in the tub to scrub my sorry back, clean my hair, kiss my eyes, dress me up while I cried in the strengthless gloom of someone that’s falling beyond the rock bottom, someone that’s feeling how her heart begins to die.

But really… that day my heart died.

Drowned.

Then I say “I guess I am numb”. I am not quite dead, but what kind of life is this one? Irrevocably blind and static in an ever swirling pool of brume. It frightens me to look around, to snap back into reality and focus my attention somewhere else that’s not that idle point on the ceiling when I am about to dose off, because then disappointment fills every nook and cranny of my room and I get strike beneath a mantle of helpless depression.

I could do anything, yet I do nothing. I could be anything, yet I let myself wilt. I could start anything, but I am too lazy to do. To fix my life, to make amends with my past. To let go and move on.

“Let go… move on…” I should turn those words into a mantra. But hey! I guess that speaking about it is a nice start.

I think about selfishness for a while. I think about all of those persons I am letting down. All the calls I never made, all the mails I never sent, all the things I never said, all the stuff I never did, all the places I never went to, all the chances that I missed, all the hands I never held, all those things I took for granted… Is a spiralling free fall into a dark pit of urgency to redeem the neat mass of shit in which I had drowned myself so slow.