the constant stability of sanity: 24 November 2011

I want immortality, perfection, permanence, security, the constant stability of sanity, to keep everything remembered forever, never forgotten…but truly I don’t want any of these things. I’ll get bored and feel trapped, I’m contradicting myself, fucking up the harmony or unity I might have had in another life, why do my cigarettes always burn out in the end, withering into ashes, reflecting my disarray, my ineptitude at making things last, at enjoying what I wanted and received, at loving everything about my existence in any given moment.

To be in love with one’s existence, how can it be? How do you get to that point? I want to use things up and discard them, but I can’t let them go, I need to save them I need to feel them I need to be them.

I don’t want anything unless it’s perfect, I can’t stand it when it’s less than my ideal, it has to be art, it has to be the unity of two minds, the corpus callosum feeding me and my other half, holding us together I don’t want short hair and black pea coats and business shoes. I want violence and lust and abstractions and fibers of insane brilliance and fucking despair.

I want odd jobs and temp jobs and photographs and Splenda. I want to throw out my clothes, the colours of fall, the lights reflecting in your eyes and in the windows of the skyscrapers. I need your fingernails to be dirty, I need you to be skinny and not tall. I need your clothes to be ripped I need you to have cuts on your arms and tattoos I need you to look like me, I’m narcissistic as fuck I can only love myself and the texture of acrylics. And pigeons that limp, and the sooty dustiness of dusk, layers of clouds, fabric old and worn, the fabrics of a historical beauty, a vintage desire, a reputation of fashion,

a wasted youth, wasted time, wasted movement, meaningless gestures, schizophrenic desires, pain colored in the pages of a magazine, in the margins of a book, hidden in the strands of your hair, under your lipstick, stained into the porcelain of your teacups, melted into your bleeding heart, stapled into the wooden walls of your picturesque frame, the boards of your safe house, the cans of your spaghetti, the meat on your bones, licking the strips of your tendons with white hot flame, burning into a spent soul,

tired of living and waiting for nothing, trying uselessly to find meaning in a chaotic, hostile world, an empty world of hopelessness, of terrible beauty, of exhaustion.