May 29, 2013

  • Lana Del Rey, "Born to Die"

     

    Don't make this about him or her.. make it about you.

     

    So I am trying to focus on myself, my feelings, my actions... I have never hated and loved two people this much at the same time in my life. I am frothing at the mouth with resentment and only nagging reminders stop my tongue before I speak what I am thinking. "Sometimes life is not enough and the road gets tough, I don't know why,"

     

    I could walk around the block ten times and still be equally angry. Life becomes a chess game; each move has to seem innocent, dumb, nieve-- that way when my Queen strikes no one will expect it. A disappearing act was never my thing; long goodbyes seemed reasonable. Expected. Leaving was painful, sharp like razor blades. I get the urge to pour the vodka in the crappy iced tea I'm sipping on like I did as a teenager. 7am innocence lost, aggravating circumstances. Life imitates art. 

    Sometimes I think about that moment in the movie Sylvia where she explains how she feels like a negative of a person. The desire for blackness and silence, something I think about all the time. I never really get upset about the way my father died (or for that matter, how his father died) simply because I am almost jealous. Dying of an opiate overdose seems like one of the most quiet, pleasurable ways to die. Falling asleep and never waking up, never feeling pain, hunger, grief again. 

    I miss the ocean. Sometimes I think I never want to see it again or that I need desperately to live near it. Days get more jagged, long winded, tedious, empty. Biting my own lip, I remind myself just to smile. Fake it until I make it. I just wonder how long someone can fake it before they snap... before they can hear their own nerve endings breaking like twigs. What does it take to really reach the end, to decide to pen one's own ending in one's own blood... Here I sit now, calmer.. almost indifferent. Breathing seems like a chore. Loving; being in love, loving friends and family, these all seem like pretty little pleasures that dissolved in time. They seem like charming notions, almost a false start to a life that is the mathematical result of regrets.