Aprei moi le deluge - A selfish turn of phrase which has clung like dryer sheets to the lexicon of the more cultured members of our culture, or a declaration of an intuitive sense of impending destruction and one's own imminent, non-abstract mortality? More DiVinci, less Salvador Dali. More real. Her eyes follow me wherever I go. Melting clocks tick louder as heartbeats become fainter.
Human of the year - congratulations. Outside the cars are beeping out a song just in your honor. All mankind are now your brothers. But you don't speak to your brothers, so I'll attempt to make contact. Why don't they want me? People want very badly for me to kiss away the pain they can't even recognize within themselves, but I am driven to self-destruction by loneliness - who will kiss away my pain? I have no mother, but I want it to be sexual anyways, so I'm not bothered. I have no lover, but I want it to be motherly anyways, so I'm not bothered.
Remember when we went "mining for gold" in Dahlonega? We were so excited - we might find REAL gold. It ended up being a sandbox within which some employee had scattered sharks' teeth. Remember when they sent us out into the world? We were so excited - we thought we might find REAL life. It ended up being a masquerade ball at which masks were never removed; identities never revealed; truths never spoken - it was a lie all along.
Remember when I found your heart? I had no pretense, no promises, no specific hope, no expectations. I saw you sparkle in my peripheral vision before I glimpsed your golden light. I dug slowly but instantly into your chest cavity, found a heart, delighted in it, went mining, and found gold. My search was over. Such has been said by many a fool. Cubic zerconias are the fools' gold of commitment - diamonds grind them to bits, the battle isn't even fair. Give me a diamond or give me nothing - I can't bear to watch our love erode.
Sometimes I see visions of future sandcastles made by us and our children - colorful buckets and shovels and smiles - when the ocean inevitably destroys them, we do not mourn. We build another. We must never let our love erode, but if it does, we must use our colorful tools to rebuild and restructure immediately. We will add a hidden chamber to our castle this time - one which keeps our secrets safe from the grasp of harsh artificial light and the judgment of the faint colored glow of gorgeous stained glass windows, beautiful children born into a war that doesn't belong to them. Fools' gold has no market value, it can only serve as a memento of times gone and done. If one can't afford gold to gift a lover, one can't afford a gift but love itself. Love itself is more than enough - it is completion; climaxing and beginning anew simultaneously. You've loved before... maybe once or twice, maybe... but never THIS love. Your eyes have sharpened, your senses have become keen, your heart adept; you won't fall for fools' gold this time. This is your mantra. "Not this time." Brush, swish, spit, repeat.
I wish I had the strength - or weakness - to tell myself you're going to save me. Capable
of saving me. You're just another fucked up wreck with no hope of being saved yourself. If I could draw, I'd draw you a map of our demise, both as individuals and as a unit. If I could dance, I'd choreograph a number in whatever is the saddest dance that speaks the most of sorrow and parting to foreshadow it for you. I already know - getting caught off-guard is one of the worst parts. Maybe that's why I'm glad I already know.
Just because someone will hang out with you and do self-destructive things does not mean they're your soulmate. Let's just call this a hard lesson learned.