I just wanted to megapost, so I am lousy with words. I have too much self-pity and confusion and embarrassing disgust in me right now. I'll blame it on the gin tonic, on the free drinks, on the 'still figuring it out', on the 'Sorry I was shy.'
// edit a few hours later: I am damn sure it was the free drinks and the lame party.
Tonight I'm going to Tampere and we're gonna see a legendarily tasteless stripclub. I'm sorry mom. I want to feel it all.
I wrote this a few weeks ago. I don't know if it's a poem or a story or a diary entry. I have to say the feelings here aren't very fresh anymore, but I liked the process (the life and the moments lived, and this is the becoming). Lately it has all felt like a process but I don't know where this life is leading me now from this turning point.
I have told you how it feels like to come from somewhere, so put it together. I try to write the story of him but five cups of coffee does nothing and the day isn't even half over yet. I try to write about the air around him, see, because I will never pull him closer than where my bones are. I wanted to take him home and out in the rain, but I needed to run out of jokes first to be fragile. Afterwards red means blood and blue means bruises, then the bruises reveal a thicker skin. He is wrapped in a soft layer of skin, it is stitched up quite right, without a flaw, he takes the knife and slits me up, and my shoes fill up with my own blood. The story identifies two things:
You can't do anything bad to me, but neither can you do me any good.
You are leading me off the path. But where are you taking me?
This is me right now.
I need a hug.