You’re a pain I never asked for. A pain I never guessed. So sweet, thrilling, addictive. I can taste you in all my thoughts and visions. You are the high I chase both in and out so much that I wanna be intertwined with you. If love is blind then so I may be. If I am cursed then cursed I will be. For you. I have lost myself to you and the pain feels so good. As good as love can get. And as bad as love can get. It’s worth every second of the high. You couldn’t get it unless you felt it too but it’s so good it doesn’t matter because I’m blind by now, blind, blinded by all you have tempted me by.
I told myself you would be the only poison I’d ever drink and your taste would be my last. Yet this end is longer than I expected, the high is matching the pain and I hardly can bear. You wink, smile, kiss my fingers — I give in. Throw a blanket over it and pretend it’s not cold out here because I’m with you. There’s a strong distance distracting like a wind. Who are you?
I hold my eyes closed tight, holding my tears, holding any tempted fright. I never asked for this but I can’t say I’d have it taken back either. I love you. It sinks to a burn, as it flys to a euphoria I can’t describe. I’d die right now but I wouldn’t be able to addictively live amongst these feelings for you. So I stay.
I used to be able to paint pictures with my words. Create images with the way I worded things. Like a sculpture of emotion. But now I struggle, now I doubt long enough to cripple myself. It’s become a challenge and it saddens me like the rain pouring down on your head when you’re walking somewhere only to get lost. Such a lonely feeling. Especially when you are forced to look down to avoid as much water as you can. Yet it still runs down your nose, down you bangs and drips on you rebelliously anyway. And loneliness sinks in, it burns your insides like a poison that you can’t simply vomit out. You try by screaming, crying, hitting walls but the emptiness rings forever inside it seems. It rings and rings, ever reminding you of how you’re not worth it, you’re not worthy to be in someone’s presence. A waste, remember. A nuisance. I know you didn’t want to live this kind of life, this kind of pain but it’s all you’ve got. So you just keep walking in the rain, looking down, not even realizing you’re lost. You judge yourself, the way you walk, the way you look. You’re too conscious of the expression on your face suddenly and then you’re disgusted and disapproving before anyone else has the chance to feel that way about you because you assume it will happen. Ah, there’s the pressure. The pressure that makes you crumble under tears when you really feel it, when you really feel sorry for yourself and hate for yourself at the same time. You’re lost and don’t know what to do about it. It’s all you’ve ever known and it hurts each time, especially this time because you forgot about it from last time. It’s just a boom-a-rang, it always comes back around once you remember how to get rid of it and throw it. I wish someone would just catch it and burn it so I don’t have to feel it ever again. But it always comes back. Even when they say, “I won’t ever hurt you”, “I want to make you feel happy”, or “I’ll never hurt you like them”. It’s all a shadow that walks away from me once I smile at it. The rain will just wash it away like chalk. They were promises written in chalk, that’s all. Attractive colors and art done in chalk, promised to mean something but when its washed away, what’s left? It’s like saying “I love you” in sand where the water can reach. Gone in seconds. It never meant anything, did it.
book, book of eli, books, film directing, film editing, films, literary, literature, media, movie, music videos, novel, novels, poem, poetry, reading, songs, visual, visual media, watching, words, writing
Some people like to analyze full films. Others, music videos or just songs themselves. And then there’s books. Visual media usually leaves more room for translation I feel. It’s also faster to go through than taking days to read a book. (I’ve certainly read a four hundred page book in a little over a week with a busy schedule; however, most won’t do that even once in their life time.) The thing with books is also that there is usually a lot more context and a longer time period explained in a single volume than a 2 hour movie. Even the longer films that last 3 or so hours still can’t show all that words can explain. And words can’t always capture what a film can portray so easily sometimes. I am a fan of film making. Having two minor experiences of film editing and directing, it is a lot of fun, and a whole entirely different field. I value writing, too. I have yet to meet someone who see’s writing the same as I in the sense of being an art. (I’m not talking about poetry.) I’ve had this thought since about middleschool when I was reading my summers away. I feel the way that someone words something can be so crafty. Whether it’s the simplest two lines that make an impact, or the overall effect of a paragraph or two. And then there’s the entire aftermath of reading a book. It leaves one speechless sometimes. Most prefer the book to the movie. Yet, convenience leans more towards watching a movie than sitting down focusing on millions of words on hundreds of pages. But I find it worth it; although I am being somewhat hypocritical since I don’t read nearly as much as I’d like to or used to even. Then again, I don’t watch as much visual media as even the average person seems to. In most cases I’m the one left out in conversation about a particular scene in a movie. Which I am perfectly fine with. It just gets kind of awkward when that becomes a lengthy conversation and I am still standing around waiting for the subject to change. Depending on how much I care to being engaged. I usually can’t find anything good enough in a film to refer to. Then again I also can’t seem to remember much after having watched the film.