Annar Veröld

I want to set fire
to the stage of life.

I want to take everything down from my walls, off of the coat hangers and put them in a pile at the bottom of the stairs, take the pages out of every book and rid my bed— take out all of my pens and lay them out to look at. I want to paste whatever piece of literature I can gather on the walls and read each one by one. I want to connect each page with something— another piece, another image, another song or idea— a film, perhaps even. I want to strip everything down to bare motifs— everything, I mean, everything. Every album I am in love with, every story I have ever read and loved, everything I have ever written that is worth the time of day. It needs to make sense; it doesn’t make sense. I want to figure out what constellation the beauty marks on my face and back make— am I from the stars?

I want to stand here naked, nude knee against nude knee and bare feet carefully placed along, beside, on top of each other— goosebumps touching goosebumps— vulnerable to everything I have ever known.

Where is my art?
Where am I and how did I get here?

It is a silly feeling, you know— when I get like this. This.
Let me show you

while I am sitting on my bed, and the ceiling paint from the wooden planks is peeling and landing on my black dress, breaking apart on top of my torn tights; the room is falling apart while I’m still here.

We have rent, we have clothes to wash, things to read, things to write, music to listen to and review and write about— an entire city outside of our bedroom window; but all we can hear is the neighbors screaming things like “stupid bitch, turn the car off—” and uncertain things like “I never loved you anyway”.

No one is going to come into my room and peel me off my red, red sheets. No one is going to put the pen in my hand, the words in my mouth, the song in my mind. My opinions must be created by my Self; I must expose my heart and mind to the reality I spend so much time studying. No one’s going to love me for laying here, no one is going to admire me for dwelling and panicking. Even if I do beautiful things and create beautiful art, and write beautiful articles and play beautiful music, there is no guarantee anyone will care. That is the sick truth— no one is waiting for me anywhere, and when someone is waiting for me— I can’t do it— I can’t live my life with people loving me and watching me. Anyway, it’s a strange feeling that overcomes you when it begins to feel like everyone in your life is in the way of the good that stems from indulging in your own creativity. I’m hoarding newspapers and literature for a reason; I haven’t touched my horn in two months, because I don’t think you understand what it is like to want something to terribly, and what it feels like when you get it; I like to suffer, I like to starve, I like to deprive myself of food and sleep and music— the way we  live is an art. It’s really frustrating when you catch yourself out of absolute control— walking aimlessly towards a bar or a cafe or a classroom feeling like you have to be there.

Whether you are aware of it or not, you’ve chosen the place you are sitting in, you’ve chosen the emotion you are dwelling in— you are the cultivator of your perspective. 

I love distortion; I love it in my art, I love it in my music, I love it in my writing and the images I dream. It is there, in my mind and in my heart; a part of me, and the way I am.

So let me be, even if it is tragic and hardly makes any sense— let me do it the only way worth surviving. 

iwasmeantforthis:

We lose our innocence. We become worsened versions of ourselves over time, simply because we stop caring. The world influences us more and more and before we know it we’re no longer ourselves. 

I’m just waiting for a return to goodness. 

From everyone, including myself.

I keep thinking of a trip we made to the ocean once. I was as pure as can be. I was innocent and in love with the world. I will never be as good as then. I will never be as deserving of love and life and the warmth of the sun as that moment. Strange how we spend our entire lives looking for something that has probably already been had. Happiness is something you simply return to. That’s how we know what we’re looking for.

Constant Force

And I loved you with this constant force—
      in the ways of sunlight
     or gravity,
     how it moves
     and exists.

It is infinite,
it is there,
    uninterrupted,
    unfaltering,
    unalterable,
suddenly and indefinitely.

Trust that,
and we will survive it.

Limit it,
and we will collapse beneath it’s weight. 

Halogen

I can feel the movement of the halogen fingers of every letter

        that composes every word
                 piecing, prying, and
        pushing its own way
        from in between the bones of my ribcage—
                 where I keep my most unbearable truths
                 suppressed and locked away—
        to the surface of my chest.

        From there, these fingers stuck to hands,
                                           stuck to ideas
                                            based on life
                                           and fluid philosophies
                                                             of love,

burst into flames, and burn into reality.

Existence
is harrowing winds

                 in an infinite abyss

banging and pushing against
the walls of
nothingness.

But even the children
can find enlightenment
there. 

Sometimes, I feel like my soul is on fire
With wit, with love, with a melancholic despair
that pushes me to write
and run
and take long walks at 3am
      with a horn strapped to my back
      and my adventure notebook
            in the pocket
            of my coat.

In my sleep,
I shake it off,
I dream of flames
and touching things
   that turn to dust.

I’m on fire,
I’m on fire,
and this is how
I’ll someday die.