February 2012
18 posts
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Limerence is like dreaming, vividly, endlessly.
Colors are beautiful, and you are alive. There’s something (or someone) to live for. There’s a reason to breathe and laugh and smile. You are invincible, high, glowing.
But you notice every glance, every twitch of the lip. You hear the underlying aggravation in words. You feel every sigh, every frown, every fidget. There’s a constant...
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Sometimes my roommate hides away in his room and sings the blues. All I can do is hide away in mine, stare at my ceiling and listen to him crooning with his guitar.
Fuck all of you who gave up, gave in, lost yourselves.
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“I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.”
– Franz Kafka to Milena Jesenská, 1921
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“The rose is red, the violet’s blue,
The honey’s sweet, and so are...”
– Gammer Gurton’s Garland
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“She bath’d with roses red, and violets blew,
And all the sweetest...”
– Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen
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slave to limerence
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My bath drain is clogged. There is endless laundry.
The moon is large and bright. I feel insignificant. I feel inconsequential.
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I miss foggy mornings when all I can smell is wet earth and all I can hear are the early birds waiting for their worms.
Growing apart from my skin.
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Looking through photos of young men with soulful eyes makes me wonder what it is I’m searching for or, more appropriately, what it is I’m afraid to find. When I sleep at night, I find myself staring at a still picture projected on the undersides of my eyelids. My nerves convince me that there’s someone lying behind me, curled to my form, knees tucked behind my knees.
Damn this...