Nothing Here Makes Sense

*little nonsense in my notes*

Love Letter to New York City?

I’ve never felt more dead when people kept telling me I was supposed to feel alive. I could start rambling about all the things that are wrong with me and this city and the chemistry between us. But frankly, I wouldn't change anything about it. In the words of Hodson, the hate I have for this place feels religious, a hate so poignant it becomes romantic, it transforms, it is love in the purest form. There is one thing I do love about New York, one thing I admire and want to attain as my own. New York is honest. It doesn't lie to you, it could disguise itself under the glimmer of a dainty skyline but it chooses not to. New York is sad and lonely and crowded and annoying and beautiful and frustrating. Not for one moment does New York make itself heaven because it's the furthest thing from it. New York encapsulates humanity. New York City is me and I am New York City.

My Eulogy? :

Tell them that I died.

Tell them she was exhausted of this back and forth and she is ready to move on and accept her lonely sin. Tell them she was done playing this carefully curated character she can recall piecing together since the moment of her conception. Tell him she won’t be waiting at the door to welcome him with open arms. Her charm and niceties won’t be at their disposal because she’s gone. Tell them she was never there. That every memory and action she ever performed was merely ink on teardrop smudged paper. Tell them that every word she spoke was empty and the ones with meaning were wasted on fools. She grew tired of the adoration and apathy that came along with knowing her. She became bored of success and its hollowness. She decided to pack her bags and leave a world full of deadly ultimatums.

Tell him, she wonders if he’ll miss her or if he’ll dance on her grave while holding his lover’s hand in triumph. Will he remember her name? The name of a ghost that lived for him and him only.

Not to give him credit but she did come to life for him and that was her biggest problem. A curse from which she could never be freed. For him she wasn’t pale or doubtful, she was everything but that. It wasn’t until that day when she dug her grave with her own two hands and painted her tombstone green, the color of his eyes, only then did she allow herself to think of him as the object of her affection: one of her biggest mistakes.

Congratulations, you have been admitted to hell:

Silence, infinite stinging silence. I swore it would be over once I left, I thought I'd finally be free. I chose to believe that moving a sea away would make me feel alive. I’ve been stuck on deadly living, I’ve been living on hope and it isn’t enough anymore. What is it that won’t let me enjoy what I’ve become, the fights I’ve won? Can I beg you, brain of mine, to adjust this chemical imbalance? Can you please try? The lights of this city aren’t enough to let me see the light, Music won’t awaken me from this bad dream, all the history here can't erase mine. I am stuck, living in a body that can’t feel. I can’t keep living the same day, unfazed, waiting for my time to run out. I can't. This clock ticks slowly, purposefully dragging my pain out. I have everything, yet I have nothing.

I won’t actually:

When do I stop looking for excuses and see what I have? I can have three-hour-long conversations with him. They are not dreadful, in fact, I want to keep talking until my mouth runs dry and we start tackling the big existential questions with frowns on our faces. But he isn't what I had in mind, he's not what I'm looking for. He is not what I've waited 18 years for. He is the furthest thing from it, he understands me and that's not what I had in mind. I want the deciphering, the puzzle, the mystery, the passion, the hate, the desperation, the loss of air until my brain can’t get a proper oxygen supply and finally bursts in big bang fashion. He can read my mind, his brain and heart seem to be attached to mine and they take control over the beat of it all, including my playlists, which I swore to never let anyone into. I still keep my favorites hidden though, because this bliss is not for me. He is too right and I wonder if that could be enough. Would I take it? I won't actually.

My Stupid Romanticizing of a Stupid Moment with a Stupid Person:

You are the poet of my dreams, with a masochistic desire for anything other than me. Words are your constant and so are mine, but in two different realities or so it seems. The night we met I was wearing black head to toe, in that magnetic moment, I would’ve never thought the clothes I picked out foreshadowed the grief that was about to arrive. You’ve spelled me with your words and stupid music taste. How is it that you play the part of all I need and I so selfishly agree? There are nights when if I am quiet enough I can hear your voice in my ear asking for my next card, knowing your hands had them all. If I stay still long enough I can still feel your knee grazing mine in the most intimate of touches. I hate that I am so infatuated with the idea of having you. I would be the girl in your songs, a muse that assails as you battle your eyelids from imagining my smile. Would we then finally find reciprocity inside our words?

Longing is a silent murderer, it draws you in and allows you to believe that dreaming and aching for something, for someone this badly is okay. Nights spent bleeding for this one malleable soul-crushing outcome are reduced to a new ache in your chest. Will this longing ever stop? 

Your words and catastrophic bass lines can’t meet common ground with my narcissistic poetry that makes an exception for you. Why does life present you on the most gorgeous of pedestals, wrapped in everything that I love and you seem to gravitate towards? Rhiannon is forever stained with your name, you’ve ruined one of my favorite songs. December no longer feels innocent, it feels colder than ever before without the burning intrigue of the unknown and the promise of our fire. As I sit here writing this during the most lethal capitalist holiday, I collect all the pieces of myself the ones my deadly longing for you has shattered. The one that hasn’t but should stop.

—-

"You’ve never seen a woman taken by the wind”

“And wouldn't you love to love her?"

—-

I won’t sanctify you, I won't lie. But for a moment on that December holiness, you really did look like an angel with the most beautiful deceiving eyes. I should’ve known from the way you poured a stream of vodka down my throat that it was never your intention to not be invasive. You knew you’d leave damage done. And you did. 

Please sing to me, put me out of my misery.

Eviction Notice To My Success:

Centuries, since that one bacteria reproduced itself. Since Adam and Eve ate from the forbidden tree. Centuries since the universe imploded and the earth was conceived. And yet there hasn’t been one innovation that can craft an antidote to reverse the effects of getting what you want. That aching pain that takes shelter in your success-driven soul. The shattering of a muscle, broken by your own two hands, and the chase of what you long for. I stare at my prescriptions, trying to find something that will evict this self-depreciation from my warmest bones. I overdose on overthinking, trying to come to terms with the end of the chase and move on with it. But after the hustle, all I want is to frame it, stare and praise it until I eventually put it down from my walls and leave it to rot in a box at the top of my closet. I don’t want it to stick like toilet paper on my nice heels at the club on Saturdays. It's soul-shattering what getting what you want can do, it will eat you alive. I start asking myself why I idolized the idea of obtaining him, her, and this, as the solution to the equation of life. In the end, this is a floating rock and I, well I still don't know what I am.