it’s stupid that night time, the time when it’s dark and we need to close our eyes least, is in fact the time we close our eyes the most
im looking thru my tumblr posts from 2013 ( i think i started blogging 2012 but i remember deleting like a years worth of posts) and i was still a boy then and theres a post where i said “everyone please stop wanting to have sex” and then another post where a friend who i don’t think uses tumblr anymore replied to that post “but andrew (thats my fake deadname)… SEX!” and i was like “yeah i guess ur right”
also noticing i reblogged a lott of like closeups of girls wearing cute shoes/socks im surprised i never got dragged 4 that
theres a photo of a just barely chubby pale dude with little purple flowers braided into his long thick tummy&chest hair and i remember wanting my body to look like that and be perceived as i perceived his body in that photo. i think back then my body was a lot closer to how i wanted it to be then it is now
my top songs r all from the basinski/english collab album that sounds like drowning in a hell lake. young thug still #1 though
I remember looking around the hospital waiting room,
full of people all absorbed in their own personal catastrophes
or reading books like Being Mortal,
all with a look in their eyes.
And I remember still feeling like: No.
No one can understand.
No. My devastation is unique.But people get cancer and die.
People get hit by trucks and die.
People just living their lives get erased for no reason
with the rest of us watching from the side.
And some people have to survive
and find a way to feel lucky to still be alive,
to sleep through the night.When I was leaning on Skrillex’s tour bus
waiting for the hotel shuttle in the middle of the night,
I barely knew who I was.
I looked up and saw Orion wielding a club and a shield
and there you were again:
majestic dead wife.
As my grief becomes calcified, frozen in stories
and in these songs I keep singing, numbing it down,
the un-singable real memories of you
and the feral eruptions of sobbing-
these waves hit less frequently.
They thin and then they are gone.
You are gone, and then your echo is gone,
and then the crying is gone.
And what is left but this merchandise?This is what my life feels like now,
like I got abruptly dropped off on the side of the road
in the middle of a long horrible ride
in a hot van that was too full of confident chattering dudes
and the sound of tires receding.
Taking in the night air I say,
“Now only.”
Hilma af Klint (1862-1944, Stockholm)
Svanen (The Swan) No. 17, Group IX/SUW, The SUW/UW Series, 1914-1915.
via: Artsy
