(no subject)
Well, one of the two floaties keeping me in the Jarrod pool has been punctured. Yes...a semi-sudden collapse of charisma. It's like, in the beginning of relationships people will kiss each other's asses with a smile. There's no reason not to try; it's like having a bag of mystery seeds, fertile soil for miles and no other hobbies. For a while, your effort is completely immeasurable. So to remain invested in your product, you prematurely assume its identity. You imagine perfection: roses so bold with blossoms that would overshadow any thorn. And while you may end up with something living, it can only disappoint your fantasy.
And once this foreign object begins to take shape, instead of recognizing it for the simple organism it is and taking back all but the little time it takes to sustain the thing, you feel less and less committed to nurture it at all. The only thing you see is what could have been. And you'll ponder over that dying garden until its figure crumbles back down into the earth. And only then, without a single sight to trigger your memory of its seedling self, will anything else so much as spark your interest or even catch your eye.
But even after accepting the story so far, you're unsure if you can proceed without that portrait of perfection in tow. Though it may be a long time coming, you carry the idea that you know what it is you're trying to find. That the wasted hours have made you wiser, that you'll be better able to gauge which blank canvas is made to withstand the bold colors and boundless strokes you've planned.
With every attempt, do the bristles break? Will the materials in paint separate? Or do they just wait for newfound inspiration to blend back into that magic mix, the concoction just bound for creation if given the chance.
I imagine some miraculous conception, where water pours from the heavens to roll the soil out further, and give the paints new life. Where the person other than yourself not only indulges in being the canvas but works around your own wild, flailing arms to co-create his own heart's desire. Dripped down from brain to breast, an amazing collaboration immune to rules such as taking turns and offering mid-stroke admirations. NO rules, just right.
Not at all sure how easily translated that last scenario came over. But it's a feature film decades from production so there's room for revision.
The frame at present: Jarrod as a flower I'm about to hack. A flower that used to dance for me and now just tilts its petals to the sun for self-satisfaction. Even the sex is just to gratify his own ego. Sometimes I get the feeling I am just the audience, in what's meant to be a private confessional between Narcissus and his reflection.
Another vessel will come along, another body to dazzle and tape to create. (And yes, that was quite literal. I need to remove myself from the catalog of conquests somehow.) The fact that even just a few tears were pushed out from my reserves today suggest that this breakup will be permanent.
Though yet again, he had no words, no gesture to steer us in an alterate direction. What burns me up even more than silence is how he pretends to not understand what I say in plain language. Communication is key, and I can't go on without it. I've been the one to initiate the breaking up procedure twice now, and I need strength to not retract my decision for loneliness.
I've put myself between a rock and a hard place without any friends around. Just parents and a job. I hope I can do this.
And once this foreign object begins to take shape, instead of recognizing it for the simple organism it is and taking back all but the little time it takes to sustain the thing, you feel less and less committed to nurture it at all. The only thing you see is what could have been. And you'll ponder over that dying garden until its figure crumbles back down into the earth. And only then, without a single sight to trigger your memory of its seedling self, will anything else so much as spark your interest or even catch your eye.
But even after accepting the story so far, you're unsure if you can proceed without that portrait of perfection in tow. Though it may be a long time coming, you carry the idea that you know what it is you're trying to find. That the wasted hours have made you wiser, that you'll be better able to gauge which blank canvas is made to withstand the bold colors and boundless strokes you've planned.
With every attempt, do the bristles break? Will the materials in paint separate? Or do they just wait for newfound inspiration to blend back into that magic mix, the concoction just bound for creation if given the chance.
I imagine some miraculous conception, where water pours from the heavens to roll the soil out further, and give the paints new life. Where the person other than yourself not only indulges in being the canvas but works around your own wild, flailing arms to co-create his own heart's desire. Dripped down from brain to breast, an amazing collaboration immune to rules such as taking turns and offering mid-stroke admirations. NO rules, just right.
Not at all sure how easily translated that last scenario came over. But it's a feature film decades from production so there's room for revision.
The frame at present: Jarrod as a flower I'm about to hack. A flower that used to dance for me and now just tilts its petals to the sun for self-satisfaction. Even the sex is just to gratify his own ego. Sometimes I get the feeling I am just the audience, in what's meant to be a private confessional between Narcissus and his reflection.
Another vessel will come along, another body to dazzle and tape to create. (And yes, that was quite literal. I need to remove myself from the catalog of conquests somehow.) The fact that even just a few tears were pushed out from my reserves today suggest that this breakup will be permanent.
Though yet again, he had no words, no gesture to steer us in an alterate direction. What burns me up even more than silence is how he pretends to not understand what I say in plain language. Communication is key, and I can't go on without it. I've been the one to initiate the breaking up procedure twice now, and I need strength to not retract my decision for loneliness.
I've put myself between a rock and a hard place without any friends around. Just parents and a job. I hope I can do this.