This bitter-sweet melancholia that unhurriedly intoxify my soul.
And I start flying, getting high, rising slowly like the smokes of dying fires.
Spanning the overcasted, dry grey skies, spinning strange metaphors ….
in blue jeans. His wife,
a saint. She’ll have his children.
They’ll have his eyes, I have this moment
between the jump and the ground.
I know he doesn’t belong to me.
I am the thief, not the victim. My bed
is an empty ring box, an unmade apology.
When he leaves, I will write my vows
in the tangled sheets.
I will not yearn. I will not mourn.
I’ll hate every man with his name. — Holy Holy, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)
6 Types of Love
a passionate physical and emotional love based on aesthetic enjoyment; stereotype of romantic love
a love that is played as a game or sport; conquest; may have multiple partners at once
an affectionate love that slowly develops from friendship, based on similarity
love that is driven by the head, not the heart
obsessive love; experience great emotional highs and lows; very possessive and often jealous lovers
selfless altruistic love; spiritual
Spinning and spinning…. (Person are/or places)
It happens when you leave someone or some place, not just a part of your heart is left there or with that person but a part of your soul too. With time slipping away and with your long aimless wanderings, you go on dropping bits of your soul/self all over. So at last you are left with not much and you seem to ineffably missing something. You become unfathomably deep but at the same instant empty too. You become light at head but unbearably heavy at heart for no particular reason that one could attribute to it. Words-your’s, other’s loose their grip on you, failing to entice your eyes, your ears any more. Silences gain their meaning, slowly intoxicating you with every breath. On oneside everything seems to be moving too fast to comprehend or to keep track of and on other end everything is so utterly at a stand still and so immovably stationary that even rocks, mountains would seem to be up to speed.
It happens when you start again to return to those people and places long lost and left on the delapidated paths you once walked on, its not them you are reminded off or meet again but you meet your self, the part of you which you left their with them. You realize how well they have kept those left overs of your soul and how they have given it a place in themselves and made it their own. you wonder was it ever your’s or in the first place it always belonged to that place or person. You understand that time won’t be mercifull enough to turn back and neither are present moments condusive enough to reclaim and if you’d be stone hearted enough to ask for or find your self from that place or that person, then more than often you may have to rip it off from them and leave them wounded. And as you are not you stand midst of it all just watching yourself manifested at those places in those individuals.
It happens that you get up to leave again and it was as certain as death that you would have to leave, as there are new paths waiting for you. These paths not just lead you somewhere but also to your self and you don’t like to disappoint them both. But when you start walking again and distances start to grow again both in space and in time you realize how great a cost you have already paid for your wanderlust. At the same time you ask your self if it were not worth it, but you’d never know as you never get to see the other side of the coin and the things would always lay hangaing in the suspended animation and would become another “what if” of your existence.
And it would happen again on some night like this when you have been switching in between sleep starvation and inexplicably absurd dreams, which seem to consume you needlessly, you would wake up again and see how night would bring a new realm of darkness to your soul, which would also come with a tint of solace. Calm wind blowing and gently whispering in your ears the songs of long parted but unforgettable nights, of which only this wind and a few stars would be the witnesses.
It would happen that slowly days would suspend, split open on to hours, and these long hours just move away moment by moment, slowly passing us by, writing a story about the innumerable path a life takes, twisting sharply, turning catiously and sometimes circling-round and round as our lifes and universe spins away.
It would happen that you’d wake up from an incomplete sleep, head still heavy with the remenisence of a randomly outlandish dream which has just broken and gone to grave like so many uncountable others. And you sit there mourning over another obscure work of your sub-conscious which evaporated into dark oblivions.