Thursday 5 July 2018

when you write (wip)


you write
when you’re angry
When you’re sad
When the sun falls down
Behind the pretty concrete landscape of your horizon
When you’re walking on the street
When you dream.
When you can’t help but gawp in wonder
at every other beautiful stranger that crosses your path,
like you’re stuck in the endless revolving door to paradise
At life.
When you’re eating your lunch
And drinking this afternoon’s second glass of red
When you’re opening a page on Chrome
And realise that this is the site that you’re already on
When you dream
When you’re mean, and kind
When you’re standing on a rooftop, 
Fighting not to faint,
L’appel du vide,
Fearful not of the height
But the more fatal impulsion to measure it in free fall.
When you’re listening to music
When you’re so drunk and whatever that it’s not even you anymore
When you’re talking to your friend in Kyoto about crypto market moves and getting rich
When you’re Integral
When you’re afraid and alone and wish crying was not such a far-fetched possibility
When you scream
When you’re making mistakes
In Manhattan,
And then somewhere else,
Like Salt Point
Or maybe that one came first.
When you dream that the dream just stopped.
When you’re on a plane, train, bus, or motorbike
And you’re crashing.
When you love people but don’t know how to tell them
When you love people and you do know to tell them, but you don’t
And that’s worse
When you say too much and demean yourself
When you’re making money
When you really, really, really don’t give a fuck
When you miss your friends and you know you won’t ever see them again
When you’re beautiful and make people laugh and smile out of the deepest part of their hearts
When you can’t help but hurt yourself
And you’re sorry
When you wish it was…
Or you’d just done that then
Or this.
When you just want to be normal and swap all of this fucking bullshit
For something safe, solid, and uneventful
When you’re proud of yourself
When you are one,
and you have been.
When the lights go out on la rambla and the liceu theatre is lit up all alone in red
When a dog barks
And the smell of frying garlic drifts up from the kitchen of the restaurant on the corner to your balcony
And you remember the dream is this one that you’re having now.
yes, you write all of this down
Your fingers bleed the proof

And, yet, the page is blank
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