one for the girls
I do not like to divorce myself from the real world, but sometimes it is necessary.
Sometimes it is not.
Today was a day for dressing up, for being a girl. Sometimes I try to be so tough that I forget masculinity was not my inheritance. On goes the earrings, on goes the pewter coloured shoes, up goes the hair tied into a knot. Dressing up makes you feel like a different person, just like how dressing down makes you feel like who you really are. Right now, I'm down and not up.
But back to memory - if not, we tend to forget, we tend to oscillate about ourselves in space wondering what the hell we were doing there in the first place anyway. Sometimes, I tell myself, I need to quell my tendency to digress.
Dressing up, I feel like someone new, someone made up, someone special. It was a night for the girls, where we sat in plush seats sipping drinks like we were lounging on the beach. If you close your eyes just once, the fabric will melt into sand, the wood into sea, the traces of smoke into traces of air. It's been a long time since I've been out, so much so that when heads turn to look at me, I forget that it's flattery I ought to feel and not bewilderment. There's a fine line between self-denial and self-indulgence.
Nights like these are loveless, only because there's only vanity. You feel yourself as the centre of the earth with gravity hugging you tightly. To be crude, you are a harlot, smoke and alcohol creeping up on you like a veiled assassin. Vice they say, is a cruel but tantalising thing.
-
I wished words were always pretty, I wished my words were always true, I wished I could stop transcribing the world into words and hold my breath and listen once in a while. I wished my poetry was real.
I wished I never was a dramatist.
Sometimes it is not.
Today was a day for dressing up, for being a girl. Sometimes I try to be so tough that I forget masculinity was not my inheritance. On goes the earrings, on goes the pewter coloured shoes, up goes the hair tied into a knot. Dressing up makes you feel like a different person, just like how dressing down makes you feel like who you really are. Right now, I'm down and not up.
But back to memory - if not, we tend to forget, we tend to oscillate about ourselves in space wondering what the hell we were doing there in the first place anyway. Sometimes, I tell myself, I need to quell my tendency to digress.
Dressing up, I feel like someone new, someone made up, someone special. It was a night for the girls, where we sat in plush seats sipping drinks like we were lounging on the beach. If you close your eyes just once, the fabric will melt into sand, the wood into sea, the traces of smoke into traces of air. It's been a long time since I've been out, so much so that when heads turn to look at me, I forget that it's flattery I ought to feel and not bewilderment. There's a fine line between self-denial and self-indulgence.
Nights like these are loveless, only because there's only vanity. You feel yourself as the centre of the earth with gravity hugging you tightly. To be crude, you are a harlot, smoke and alcohol creeping up on you like a veiled assassin. Vice they say, is a cruel but tantalising thing.
-
I wished words were always pretty, I wished my words were always true, I wished I could stop transcribing the world into words and hold my breath and listen once in a while. I wished my poetry was real.
I wished I never was a dramatist.