you used to lay in a bathtub and dream about you and your friend and his lover sinking into My Bloody Valentine - Loveless over weed and libertine adolescence. we would all melt like their Jazzmasters, your heads in a triangle as the carpet burned alive. us pixies in mid-august forests by the shore, the sun an eternal cradle and smile. it's all infinite, it was all worth it, where has the time gone?
i know you like to pass it off as a joke, like fucking everything else, but you don't like that you think you're unattractive. you don't like a lot of things about you nowadays. you would tell yourself that if there's a problem, you should do something about it. but it only was simple as that. there is a problem of 'am i worth it' now, whatever that means.
dude, my writing is cowardly. don't sell yourself short (i know, really rich coming from me). i can wax poetic all day every day out my ass, but you don't waste time like i do. you say what you mean.
it's hard for me to do that. i can, i guess, but i can only squeeze out a poot of the worlds you can make. maybe that just comes down to our experiences, maybe i just lack the language to be as earnest, maybe i'm just really afraid of being vulnerable. it's probably a mix of all three.
it's fun being vague. it can do a lot of the work for you. but it's something entirely more powerful to just get to the point and have it all hang out unobstructed by what you think people should see of you. you're getting at that.
i love love love your scenarios. fuck, i really do. i wanna write like you. you capital-D Dream.
you've started literally living in it. your mirror neurons are frying and your frontal lobe is cutting back with all the fucking noise. you keep talking about 'the triumph of the object' and you know why: images have superseded you. your high awareness is in second to this techno-primal-wanting-to-fuck-ism. for the love of something else, beg for something that isn't the oblivion of your black mirror. you can look past it, but you will always come back to the desert of the real.
i just want it to stop; i don't want it to stop; it's never going to stop.
to be honest, i imagine it all in photographs. sometimes i pose for them to myself in mirrors. i always imagine trying to dork you out when we first meet. my face would sag and scream as you'd get used to it and laugh, we'd sync inevitably. i hope it would be goofy but totally sincere. i think it could seem to some people like maybe you wouldn't get it in the first couple hours of being together because it's all so weird for the both of us, but i know you would. we'd both we doing the same thing.
i hope those lights never go out (the Room, the North America World Tour, the New Girl situation)
i think i still miss you, somehow. as overbearing as that sounds.
sometimes i fall asleep to the thought of describing your face to a friend i have not met yet while dosing off then, long after we somehow stop talking. longing to long about longing, i can imagine that you know the feeling.
like the birthday candles you can't blow out the first try, however many girlfriends that is. it's still burning, but they all have to go out.
ironically enough, whining about how much of an asshole you are is a little self-indulgent, isn't it?
i want to write some more shit about what i want to write about and about you, but i am exhausted. it's 5 am.
