Our Bodies Will Make Raspberries Grow.
Her eyes are bruised.
"Rough night?"
She looks at the streetlights.
"It's always night. Rough life, you mean."
Sometimes, things seem backwards. Like when you wake up, feeling you're about to fall asleep or eat ice cream for breakfast when it's past midnite. I guess Alice wasn't kidding about that looking-glass of hers.
Side one. The good, the bad and the alien. Spent days swimming in distorted Time and bad meanderings, thinking about love and death and everything in between. Should I be ashamed, is there anyone else to blame? The past, reminding me it could be a whole lot worse and also, a whole lot better. When the line between reality and delusion blurs, there's no way of knowing what's what unless you decide to believe in something. And that's when things become complicated. Say: if I don't exist, my Others don't exist; if my Others don't exist, I'm not crazy. Maybe the quest of self stops once we figure out we're all the same old drafts, fucked carbon copies of originals. Then I'll find myself on the verge of greatness, all these possibilities rushing to my throat and I'll feel like puking in excitement at what my mind has to offer. Go figure.
Go back. In the corner of my eye, I see Evan playing with a sword. You won't be able to ruin this, I tell him. You're too sure of never being hurt again, he smirks. And he was right, he's always right. But he triggers my doubts and while trying to avoid his traps, I fall into others. I burst out of my apartment and wander into the city, sitting close to water and trying to expel the sun from my pores. A hand leaves sprigs of purple on my knee and I look up: "It's lavender. It smells good." I thank the man but when he settles on the steps next to me, exhaling beer, I leave. Stray to this faraway park with ducks and lonely losers up for a quick fuck. Dead leaves cling to my skirt, my head hurts and music can never be loud enough. Moments which come and go, abbreviations of tragedy. My life like a lasting pipe dream -I try to think of myself, which means I end up thinking about no one.
Side two. I realise it's summer only after eating toast with butter gone bad in the beginning of the month. I miss therapy, I never seem to sleep enough. I wake up to rain, to one.am-s, to the phone ringing. I roll out of bed and head off to impromptu gatherings, my body feeling like dirt and my face warm -oh Conor, can you teach me another thing or two about fevers and mirrors. Five minute walk and I'm standing outside a tiny venue, thinking it's been ages I haven't been to a show. The first felt like lunacy, strong basses trembling along my legs and up my spine. The walls closing in on my mind. Met up with old friends; they've changed more than not, which gives me an awkward sort of hope. I let my eyes linger on wannabe hardcore kids; I smirk and think of how I'm not having fun like I used to. I guess that's what growing up does to you. Still enjoyable, though. Just in a different way.
Such music lives off raw energy, right. The second show featured Sylvain's band and another from New York. I'm getting used to the stares but that could be sleepiness and lack of caffeine. I'm late so I finish my smoke before breathing deep, stumbling inside to find Yann. Talk a little. Feel normal, which is bizarre. A random drunk reminds me of the hospital. Later on, I'm standing in the crowd, it's dull and I try to forgive people for touching me. I can feel the angry guitars, heavy beats swelling to silence and that's when it gets good. I think of how I ended up in the park the day before, lost at how I got there again. Listening to some mixcd, smoking pot and looking at the trees. If walking by la Meuse makes me feel like water and wind, the park ties the earth to my lungs and makes me grow, grow, grow. I fell asleep for an hour and woke when the clouds started hitting the sun. Similar quiets.
I sloppily learn how to read my palm and what I see doesn't entirely please me. I wonder if I fucked up my future by burning both of my palms when I was learning how to walk. Sometimes, fear tastes like sex. I try to tell my shrink how my head is full of black tar but get distracted by the shadows on the walls; she turns her head but doesn't see anything. When I close my eyes, I see forks of fire and long corridors with open doors on each side and a huge leering face tearing through the dark.
Nutrition means eating gazpacho and chipping ice from my freezer to cool my drinks -it tastes like perfume. I remember my father calling me by the dog's name to get a rise out of me and find myself missing #1. Cigarettes taste like god after some late nite ice cream. I walk to the store and the buildings are all dressed up in black and blue, like bruises on the quiet streets and I think of Edo and its lights. There's a festival this weekend but I don't know if I'm leaving tonite or tomorrow. It doesn't matter. Rain's just water, after all.
"Go find yourself a dry place where the storm can't touch you anymore."