That feeling that you can’t really identify like a little mix of a hundred emotions.
Didn’t really occur to me before now… I missed you. I could say a thousand words more but they won’t really do or change anything. So that’s about it. Oh and, you look really cute sleeping and all.
“I dig my toes into the sand, the ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue blanket, I lean against the wind, pretend that I am weightless, and in this moment I am happy—” -Wish You Were Here by Incubus
As much as one may be used to city life, exhaustion still gets to the best of us. When last-minute decisions, gradient noise, smoke, and lights become a little bit too overwhelming, my mind always goes to the ocean.
It tries to gather my last memory of sun, sand and sea. The sound of the water’s calming wave crashing against the shore as if it was music, the breeze, oh the fresh salt-mint breeze that you can never gather anywhere in the city, the colors that seem to be new variations of radiance even if they’re all the same present back home, and especially the stars at night that are vibrant and never more brighter anywhere else…
Everything about that peace present where the last stretch of sea tries to reach as far as it can to embrace the sand.
Tonight, I shall sleep by the shore. If only in my rusty-dusty mind.
The problem with one night stands is the morning after; waking up alone in bed. The biggest dilemma though, if it does come, is that little hook. Yes, the tiny little voice inside your head wanting more and you know it just may be a little bit more than sex. Somewhere in between lines and touches, kisses and moans, I fell half in love with you. And I know I’m not supposed to, but despite my busy morning after, the very replays of your smile and your voice in split-seconds fueled the rest of my day, making me realize a few things. A, you’re fucking amazing, B, I’m incredibly stupid.
Wouldn’t it be so nice to think that fragments and stolen moments were worth more than a simple passing —a passing fancy?
That stares meant more than the eyes’ sudden pause. That the slightest brisk of skin to skin was electrifying not only to you. That the very sound of his or her voice resonated like music, a young melody growing up to be a full-blown concerto. That his or her very scent: an elixir, a potion enough to turn you on then and there. And of course, that any compilation of words from him/her (simple, complex, random or irrelevant) magically had a deep undertone of love. Of a long-awaited spark of romance, the unsaid ‘i’ve been missing you’ and the unwritten return of a love once lost along the way.
Oh, if only things were this romantic. And triviality served such purpose. I would jump and hesitate none, to show much much more.
Sometimes, there are moments when you stop listening and you wander off into a stare. As if scrutinizing the person’s every last flaw, wondering, thinking how much life this person has been through, how much heartache and pain, love, joy, fulfillment… in all those drifting questions, most times I deduce, that this person, however torn or seemingly complete, is all in all, beautiful. Despite flaws, despite almost everything. As if he or she were a painting and every little detail meant something -which most times, no one would ever get close enough to discover.
Of Tutus and Sly Eyes
Act 1. Prima Ballerina
She puts on her make-up: lipstick on her already supple lips, mascara to amplify her long eyelashes and powder to cover any minute flaws. She looks past other ballerinas searching for one sight and one vision only as she walks towards her own private dressing room. All the rush and fast paced changes mean nothing to her as her act is at its prime here and not upstage. He approaches her room, trying to find any amount of courage to at least, bid her goodluck; He knocks on her door. No answer. He knocks again and suddenly hears a sound that of breaking glass. So he gathers no hesitation to open the door in the thought of any kind of danger.
As he did, he is greeted by a broken bottle of perfume on the floor. She looks at him intently through the mirror, as if she had meant to drop the bottle just so he would enter. Her vision was angelic, so he thought; it bade him a freezing shiver up his spine. She stares him down for a while and without flinching, Prima Ballerina slowly takes off her necklace and drops it on the floor. She stands up, and reaches behind her to slowly unzip her dress, still focusing on him. Now, the lad is embarrassed and gathers enough mind to shut the door, although before he could, she whispers “stay”. So, he lingers for a few seconds at the door, breathes out heavily and once again opens it, this time entering her room. She gives a soft smile and continues to remove her clothing –very gently. As her zipper runs down all the way to her bottom, it reveals a back so beautifully curved and unflawed, almost like a black and white photograph in his eyes, stoic and elegant.
She then faces him and drops her dress to the floor, as it meets the same fate as the necklace and broken bottle of perfume. He cannot do anything else but gaze, as she was a panting, and he a great holder of art. She continues on to weather away every piece of paraphernalia she had on. It went on this way: he served audience and her, the most graceful performer, filling the room with scent, unimaginable tension and a recital like no other.
SELF-CONJURED DRAMA -our excuse for that extra shot, bottle of beer or stick of oh holy cigarettes.
To romanticize and over dramatize a thing just maybe the most selfish indulgence one can practice. We have to stop sometimes, take things as they are, swallow the truth and then look around. At all the other issues our world is taking in. However heroic or “preachy” this may seem, we have poverty, crime, corruption, inequality, etc.
I mean, next time you want to rant about your self written and directed by soap opera, get drunk and throw yourself over some random stranger (then regret it the next day), or nicotine yourself to death —think. Of how insignificant you are. Suck it up.
If I were to fall asleep today and not wake up tomorrow, it would be fine.
Not because I’ve done everything i could have, or because I lived each and everyday to the fullest (quite the opposite really, for I find that my days are just different versions of a pattern as of late), nor did I make my life count enough to make me eternal. No, none of these stereotypical existential nonsense.
It would be quite alright, for only one reason. Because I can. For every little day I die, and that’s the truth. We’re all in a stroll, or maybe a race to un-exist. To unbecome —all an un-breath away.
To die tomorrow morning is fine, because, however we twist and turn it’s impending occasion, all in all, it is a necessity.
Being sad about this particular line, i find, is very very selfish. Go figure-
Sometimes we want things just because our human nature tells us so. We want people because we can. That “sometimes” may encompass a scenario wherein that something you want already belongs to another. Doesn’t mean we envy the rightful owner nor do we want to take their place. Just means they got to them first.
I want you.
Doesn’t mean I envy her.
I want you.
Does not mean I’m jealous.
She just happens to well, have you in her possession —at least for now.
I’ll have you my own way, how I want, when I want.
I don’t know what I want; but I know the things I don’t.
It’s quite difficult to want something that your heart hasn’t loved from the beginning. Is there really such a thing as an “acquired love”? And if so, is it a sort of late manifestation or a forced mind set? I believe that everyone will always choose what gives them the most satisfaction, whatever kind that is. And with that, we’re just all selfish beings giving and taking as we wish. I want to know what I want from life. I think I do, but sometimes I wanna know for sure —it might make things easier.
We were entangled in white sheets, much like how lovers are after making love. Our bed wasn’t one. Instead, we had a cushion just lying carelessly on the floor closely beside the window which filled out practically the whole wall. I’d just changed the curtains to an alternating pattern of sheer white drape and light orange satin.
So, being that it was mid-afternoon; the sunlight seeped through in a tungsten shade –though, at times, it almost seemed bright yellow. It fell on her face in the most ethereal way. Nearly like the sun emitted light for the sole purpose of illuminating every inch of her, making the afternoon beam and her aura virtually continuous. Her eyes irradiated a lovely hazel-brown. Her hair, even more lustrous than usual.
In that instant, I was frozen in a stare, while deep inside, I felt like melting butter. And in a strange way I wanted to touch her radiance. I couldn’t help it anymore, so I did. My fingers started to tip-toe against her skin and I remember thinking, how it was so smooth and lithe, I thought my rough hand could’ve felt so course. That moment, all other senses were muted, as if leaving every tactile stir and vision, insanely heightened. In my core, I was serene yet crumbling.
I trace her eyebrows slowly to her cheeks. I didn’t want to lift my fingers off of her skin but I did to follow the slope of her button nose, all the way to its tip. She smiles, maybe already wondering what exactly I was doing. Still, I go on to feel her lips in the most careful way as if they were fragile pieces of jewelry. Supple, wet and soft –I stared with awe at their red-pink color (maybe from nibbling and biting), it was absolutely immaculate.
My right hand scooped her face, gently caressing it.
“What’re you doing?” She asked with a soft smile.
“I’m trying to memorize you… the lines of your face, everything. “
She musters up the most ridiculous grin, as if what I said was profanity. “Why?”
“We’ll never be here again.”
She became a bit sad as I now take her place, making it her turn to paint my absurdly enamored look in her mind. If only I could’ve have told her more, how I wanted to keep her as long as I could have. Maybe in a photograph in my rusty mind, I can make her last; make her all mine. Yet, she doesn’t give much more time for me to speak, nor did I have any more courage to say anything that honest.
She pulls me in and gives me the purest nirvana I’d ever tasted in the form of a long soft kiss.
Hello, stranger.
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20|Dorynna Zyneensky
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