Listen baby, I don’t mean to tell you how to live your life. Truth is, I don’t give a damn. My love is straight out of a Henry Miller novel. It’s apathetic to the point of complete sacrifice. I’m just walking. I don’t have anywhere to be. But I know that I if I stay here one second longer I will die alongside the rest of these sick bodies. A waste of precious energy and resources, but I can always walk away. And when I do the memory becomes a vital part of me the bridge set aflame every living thing on the other side never seen again. I have far too many lives to live in this one alone to get caught in some shit story of self-deprivation. I’ve been sad. I know; it’s draining. But I’m running again. I’m reaching for her neck. She’s hesitant, but hardly cautious. Her audacious touch turns the entire world to gold. She remembers him. But it’s simply too late, he’s dead. I should know. I saw everything. I’m terribly obnoxious in my incessant need to spy. I want to know every story. So I can take it home and rearrange it, turn it into something a little less pathetic than the world you’ve created. I’m trying to inspire your escape. Be patient babygirl. The material available is shit these days. Everybody is glued to a fucking screen and dead before age of three is a broken record. Everyone knows. Nobody fucking cares. Everyone supposedly cares so much, but not a single fuck loses his appetite. If no sacrifices are made, nothing changes. Boom! Mother nature will set you right. Don’t you worry about a thing sleepy baby! Tuck in your comfy butt and close your eyes. Dream of me if you dare to embrace the emptiness inside, otherwise never think of me again. You’ll wake up wet and wanting for the only time. Hurry up! Write that shit down! Too late, the story is dying right before your eyes. You fall to gravity’s command and slip crack your skull open. You didn’t mean to kill him did you darling? You would’ve stayed if you could face the degradation. But you only spoke of courage; you never actually wanted to move on it. You were so proud of your language. How easily you could possess. How beautiful you felt to be sympathetic. Truth is, you could never have cared less. Saddest part of the entire story, I adored this truth in you. You showed it, completely by accident of course. But it was too late; I already knew everything. I began to slip you pieces of vital information. I didn’t mean to. You were childlike innocence, dangerously persuasive. Manipulation and inspiration are hardly different things. Are we not always in the constant pursuit of manipulating every body around us when we play with language? Why else would you ever need to speak? With just your hands, you could’ve shown me everything. But instead you explained yourself. You told me story after story after extravagant story. Until I moved I was being moved. I let you. You were pushing me away from every body on earth but my own. Including yours. You were inspiring me to live. What more could I ask love to do? Self-obsession is now my highest sought out characteristic. I want only the ones who want only themselves, the bodies that keep my company for their own spiritual growth, the ones who make a living of letting go. Own yourself! You are more fucking beautiful than you’ve begun to imagine. Break the fucking glass! Every single bit of it! Every reflection. Every screen. Than I wont have to explain this shit to you every night. Than you’ll just know. It is the pursuit of you above all else. Your soul! Your love! Your destiny! You must take precedence always. Your desire must rule. Your heart must be your only source of navigation. When you are on your knees in desperation and you need your reflection more than life itself, I will see you. I will stand over your miserable sounds and laugh aloud. I will thank you for losing your mind and coming to your senses. I will welcome you home. I cannot heal you sick fuck you, but I can hold this love forever. I am strong enough. When you are ready, I will not be foreign. I am thousand different names and faces, but I always remain the same. Once my love is given it lives by your side for eternity. There is no beginning, so of course, there’s no end. Stop looking for explanations, that’s a disgusting waste of your existence. Get up off your knees and stop begging! Begin this life again. Start over. Blank canvas. Clean slate. No screen. No address. No ties to identification. How can anyone know you? They cant. Not if you run! Not if you get the fuck out of that place and never look over your shoulder again. I know, my ass is to die for. You could’ve died for possession of it. But you chose to save yourself instead. That’s why you’re my favorite.
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