I’m sacred that I’ll convince myself once more that I am wholeheartedly over you. I’m afraid I’ll fall into that abyss of denial and will never find my way back to you. I’m quick to guard my heart, which means if you tell me I’m single, I’ll prove it to you. I’ll share the most meaningless exchanges and inject as much meaning as I can for the other person. I’ll gain their affections, hoping their piqued interest will someway invigorate my attraction to them. Currently I’m playing this little game, I already have my first play in motion, and I’m afraid it is working all too easily. You see I’ve never really had trouble in this game, I just chose to never play it, cause it didn’t suit my style. Instead I played the waiting game. I’d observe the players that walked by, and if any looked particularly unique, then I’d prepare to play. They’d take note, and the games would begin. The only reason I ever participated is because when I waited, I had the opportunity to play an entirely different game altogether. I found that when you play with the best, you always have the most fun. I miss playing with the professionals, the rookies aren’t just cutting it. They don’t know how to make my heart skip a beat, or give me those nervous butterflies. Though maybe it is due to the fact that my heart’s just not in the game anymore. My body is, but even it wants to retract and discontinue what I’ve started. I have many options, but you’re the only one I love.
Today has been an interesting day for me. There haven’t been many ground breaking interactions or events, it is just that a lot has raced through my mind today. Today I feel antsy and energized, one may even call it restless. It isn’t a different feeling for me necessarily, but it is heightened because I made the poor choice of drinking half of an energy drink this evening. One could say I am quite hyped…. I am actually kind of sad too. I am in an odd reflective, energetic mood, so a lot of random thoughts will be voiced throughout this post.
The first thing I would like to start off with is that today I was thinking about my funeral. No, I am not dead yet, nor am I planning it in anticipation, nor am I writing this from the dead. A vision popped into my mind though about how I would like my funeral to be. I want my favorite musician’s (The Weeknd) music to be played throughout the funeral. EVERY SONG HE HAS EVER SUNG. So however long that takes, would be the duration of my funeral. It is not because I want to torment my family and friends with music that I already play constantly, it is simply based on the fact that there is something about his music that feeds my soul. My body reacts to it in such a different way than it does towards other music. It isn’t necessarily the lyrics, but sometimes it is. However, the song I would have played at the end of my funeral would be about just that: the lyrics. It is titled “Angel,” and is by far one of his saddest songs (in my opinion). In this song, he sings the verse “I hope you find somebody to love” many times, and every other utterance eats away at my heart. It is because he doesn’t say that to mean exactly that, he sings it in a mournful way towards what he and the girl he is singing about once shared. This song would be played at the end with the sole purpose of speaking to the guy I love one last time. I want the overall event to be joyous and cathartic, but I definitely feel that every funeral has a sad note to it, and depressingly enough, I would like for mine to end on a sad, reflective note.
Throughout my funeral, while the songs play, I want people to dance, talk, and interact without a care in the world, not worrying about how others are perceiving them for their poor dancing skills. I want my guests to be weird, eccentric, and most importantly, fully immersed in all senses. If someone cries, I want them to not feel any need to hold it in, or be quiet, I don’t want them or anyone else to feel awkward about it. I want it to be a mess of emotions, a fully raw experience, whether they be sad about my death or not. I want it to be an opportunity for them to look at life differently. It wouldn’t necessarily matter that I’m gone, I don’t even care if they shed one tear for me, but I do have one condition. I want people to begin living life differently. No, not change themselves. Live and love like you’re taking your last breath. Dance like everybody is watching and don’t give a rip. Lastly, stop feeling self conscious with new people or any people for that matter. We all are human, we get quiet, stumble on our words, and make fools out of ourselves. So stop letting silly things like self-consciousness get in the way of you living your life. One more thing, stop thinking so hard about being “normal.” Be you and do you, that’s all I ask.
To end this, I would like to bring up one last thing. I am frustrated at the world around me, which is partly why I wrote this post. Right now I feel the urge to contact each and every person I feel like contacting and say exactly what is on my mind (not necessarily the same thing to every person, cause I have different topics flowing through my mind currently) without having to think about what was last said and feel as though I need to “stay on topic” whatever that means… (it means humans are notoriously boring in conversation due to this obsession). I want to know that other people share the sentiment that life is precious and we should start living like every moment is our last. Everything around me is so stagnant, and people are so hesitant, all in efforts to not step on anyone’s toes. Yet there comes a time when you just need to LIVE YOUR FREAKING LIFE. That is all. Goodnight.
The gun has a mind of its own these days. It urges the question “why not shoot? what are we waiting for?” Because it does not know the specifics of the situation, it only knows that it is loaded and ready. I attempt to silence that recurring discussion because it is missing parts of the story, but truly, what is it missing on its end… It knows its purpose, it sees that the figure’s demise should have been long ago, so why don’t I shoot? Why don’t I end the life of that looming figure for good, why do I continue to let it ruminate in silence, not giving an answer for its presence. It is because the result of shooting the figure and choosing to use the gun’s power is not worth it. The figure provides pain, but it also provides bliss, comfort, satisfaction. It sits in those shadows of my life, drawing me back to the darkness. Though that is also where I feel my most alive, when I am with it. When I take the pleasure with the pain. When I have the markings of my mistakes into the next week to remind me of what I’ve done.
If the gun knew those feelings about the figure, it would question why I ever picked it up in the first place. Why I place it down ever so often, only to oblige the urge to pick it up the very next day with the promise to shoot, only to set it down for the night once again. I know I confuse the gun terribly, but it has never been my intention to shoot, no matter how much I humor the desire, it will never happen. For even though I hate that figure with a passion and cringe at the soul numbing thoughts it brings about, I will never give up on it, though I will never admit that to its face. So I will pick up that gun every so often and wave it in its face, but it should not worry about its life, because it will never cease to exist. If I murdered the figure a part of me would die along with it, and that is simply something I cannot face.
The other day, I looked in my mirror, and in the reflection, I saw a stranger. She looked at me with wide eyes, begging to be noticed, but I avoided eye contact. She made weird faces, bugging out her eyes, sticking out her tongue, forcing a smile, finally shedding tears in defeat. None of it worked. I looked at her, but not directly at her. I was scared, and she was sad. I had forgotten her in the mirror. Every time I step in front of that mirror, I look right past her. I don’t look, because I don’t recognize her anymore. I’m afraid that if I look too long, it will all become to real. I’ll finally take notice that I’ve heartlessly abandoned her for all these days. The fear that I’ll remember her. Who she was, her vibrancy, her enthusiasm for life, how I felt whole when I saw her in the mirror and could tell you her name. Every second she’s trapped in that mirror, I hear her cry. It’s quiet in efforts to not disturb anyone, yet I hear it all the time and it keeps me awake at night. She knows I hear her. I feel her presence beside me wherever I go. She and I used to be one, but now we’re two entirely different entities. She’s drowning in her tears, and I’m numb. She screams at me, in order to bring me back to reality. She makes a mess in every area of my life in order for me to see the destruction to bring me back, to make me aware. Yet I’ve lost all touch with reality. She knows that. That’s why she continues this seemingly pointless effort.
She’s the only one who knows, and she’s the only one who can bring me back.
Sometimes I wish I could know if you look at me the same way I look at you: with permanent rose colored glass, only able to see the beauty and perfection that lies inside you. Every ounce of your being equating to just enough to satisfy all of my senses. To look at you, and think, will I ever stop falling in love with every single detail? The tiny gap between your teeth. The way your lips and teeth meet. The contrast between the flatness of your teeth, and the puffiness of your lips making your lips appear all that more appealing. The way your eyes look when just your gaze exudes how much you desire my body, but also the way they look when your emotions soften, and you pull me to you.
How the hair on every inch of your body reminds me that you’re rugged and masculine, just the way I like it. How it feels when you display your desire in one single embrace.
But sometimes it is not so easy to convey just how precious a moment feels. Sometimes words don’t do moments justice.
Sitting, surrounded by people, and none know a single thing that’s going on. The opposite sex accidentally reveals their struggle blatantly, but yours remains hidden. It’s random, unexpected, but also pleasant. You’re not supposed to feel these sensations while in public. It’s a private matter. You tell yourself to stop. To think about neutral topics. Despite it all, your body rages on. Coerced by nothing, stimulated by the unexpected. It’s just happening. As hard as you try to stop it, to repress it, it continues on.
The second you can, you run to a private space. You question why you’d allow yourself to feel such innapropriate sensations in public. ‘It didn’t harm anyone.’ ‘Yeah, but it’s also deviant behavior.’
There’s a knock at the door. You answer, and in he walks. That innocent little striped dress is now slipped off of your body by his big hands, with your assistance. Next thing you know, there you lay, directly undrrneath him, both of you with minimal fabric to cover your bodies and shield your eyes from lustful glances. His gaze is begging to look at your body in its one true state. Unclothed, unaltered, the imperfections revealed. You look into his eyes and desire the same of him. To have him reveal his body, for you to watch as he unveils what your body is begging to see. Both of you take turns indulging in how every part of one another’s bodies feel under the touch of your hands, how wonderful it is to run your mouth along the most delicate, sensitive areas, and place a kiss, or deliver a tantalizingly gentle bite. Your lips meet, and your tongues begin to explore and intermingle, like two long lost lovers discovering one another once again. He flips you two over, and now you’re on top. You’re nearly naked form on display. The first article of clothing… Then the next… Suddenly you’ve found yourself completely stripped of everything. His eyes take in every inch of your body, arousing all of his senses. It’s his turn next, and he happily obliges. Soon, the two of you have now found yourselves ultimately revealed. There’s nothing left to cover, everything’s exposed. You indulge in your desires. Your bodies mold as one, as he moves in you. You engage in the most sensual, lustful, forbidden, sinful, dirty act known to man, and you love every second of it.
Recently I’ve been thinking about the differences in the music we all listen to. For some, folk music is their preference. For others, heavy metal. Some like a mixture of things, but generally there is a primary fixation on one genre. Maybe the fixation waivers and switches to an entirely new genre all together, but for the time being, they are enamored with the genre, or particular artist. I think the common theme is that no matter who you are out of these people, or what music appeals to you, we all have one common motivation that draws us to our preferred genre. We listen to and seek the things that we identify with, but also the things that make us feel empowered. Now for those of you glancing at the screen with skepticism, I’ll explain what I mean by empowered exactly. You may think that it is surely not possible that everyone’s choice of genre could truly provide empowerment. Such as for the women who listen to sexually degrading rap and enjoy dancing/ singing along to it. Even if there seems to be an underlying conflict between the content and the audience, I still believe it can provide the empowerment that I am referring to. It isn’t the topic of the songs that is important in this instance. It is the melody, the beat, the way the voice in the song sounds, the emotions it evokes from the listener. Though, it may also relate to the topic in particular instances. Such as when that sexually degrading music is being produced by someone who has their own set of difficulties. No, I’m not saying that any misogynist should be let off the hook if they are going through a small difficultly. I’m talking about an underlying emotional turmoil of the artist. Say for instance that artist fell in love. They fell in love so deeply, and found someone that makes their life complete, there is no one else out there more perfect for them than that person. Then the artist makes a choice, or perhaps a mistake, and they are torn away from their love. Either way, or whether or not that was what led them to where they are now, they find themselves so famous, that they don’t know who talks to them for them or for their fame. There is also that factor that they’re constantly put on this pedestal by all of these people they meet. Given these circumstances, they can’t connect with anyone. No one cares to know the true them. All these people assume they already know everything they need to know about the artist as a person. They’ve listened to every word they’ve ever sung, read up on their wiki page, and saw a few interviews online, so they’re an expert on them, they know everything there is to this person. So when they meet them, there is only this bland, mundane, obsessive admiration. All of this is thrown at a person who has no clue as to a single detail of the admirer’s life. The artist may appreciate their fans very much, but I highly doubt they’d ever say they enjoy the one-sidedness of it all. Considering all that must be going through their head, mixed with regular sexual urges, you may come to the conclusion that there is a bit of disconnect. It’s no longer the sex that everyone has come to know as the norm in music— It’s not making love, It’s purely physical for this person. Mostly because those surrounding them regard them in the same light. Neither seeks to discover more about the other. So the lyrics come about from these encounters. The things they sing sound detached, because they are. They are no longer regarded as simply another soul. They live in a bubble of solitude, away from everyone else. It’s not because they started out with this detached view towards women initially, it is because they are describing all it is to them anymore. It is only the acts, only the body parts involved, only the pleasure, that they can see. My point is that even underlying lyrics that come across crude or disrespectful, there lies a back story that with the comprehension of, one could come to find themselves enjoying the music of this person. Such could also be said for music containing just about anything initially offensive. So, with all of these things, no matter what genre it is, it could happen to be the genre that leaves you feeling your most empowered.
Music can also provide catharsis that leaves us with the impression of empowerment. If you haven’t experienced or felt a sense of catharsis by listening to music, then I suggest you go searching for the music that will enable you to feel it, because it is invigorating. You feel and sense every detail of the song, every nuances with your entire body. You feel as though happiness and bliss is flooding through you. You are entranced by it, and find yourself becoming at peace. After the release, your mind is at rest, and the things that generally weigh on your mind have been lifted for the meantime.
The point of all of this random babbling is that I have come to acknowledge that the music that provides me with this feeling isn’t always everyone else’s cup of tea. Some think it is sad, overly sexual, and depressing. Well they are correct, it is all of those things and more, and I love it for each one of its components. For some reason, the music that brings me the amazing feelings I just described is the kind that possesses a sullen, dark, and sexual tone. The songs I like seem to resonate within me because they are a reflection of my energy. The more I listen to it, the more energized I begin to feel, and it feels as though I’m replenishing the energy that courses throughout my body. For me, the sadness doesn’t bring me down, it makes me feel alive. I like to hear theses kinds of songs, because you can feel the emotion. It reminds me of what it’s like to be human, where sadness is a reality. Sure, happiness is as well, but that can be faked easily. No one enjoys feigning sadness in the same manner, and even if they do fake it, there still lies a genuine ounce of hurt in their voice. I guess what it is that I love about sad songs is the potency of them.