All That You Love Will Be Taken Away



The past is a dirty magazine. Its pages stuck together with dried seed from all the times I’ve leafed through and perved over images I know far too well. Writing to remember, and drinking to forget- I’m not quite sure how it works, either. Fell asleep thinking about Winona Ryder’s breasts with a smile spreading across my lips, but incoming dreams had me mauled to death by a chimpanzee. It was tearing away at my face, and when there was nothing left but a bloody mess of muscle and tendon, I looked down and could see my penis was erect. Does that happen from blood loss, or was there some Freudian symbolism at play? Sex and death. Death and sex. Oblivion is what I seek more than anything, and yet I run from it every day. And there it was, pointing at the sky as I bled out on what appeared to be a balcony overlooking a swimming pool. Drinking a few beers earlier in the evening, I discovered an old retail manager I worked for is in a coma after falling asleep at the wheel of his car. He was a good guy was Tim, even if he did cheat on his wife and left her in the lurch with all their kids. But now he’s in limbo. He exists yet doesn’t. Did the crash give him a boner? Did he wake the second before impact and regret his bad deeds? I’m watching the Texas Chain Saw Massacre 3, the Leatherface one. It’s not particularly good, and yet it serves a purpose. Before that, I went on Facebook and saved a load of my old photos in the event they might be wiped somehow. Travelling back in time, I joined the dots and traced those footsteps all the way to 2008. I was dating Sophie at the time. My first profile pic was taken in the house I was sharing with an ex-girlfriend, and in it, I was sat at a desk drinking a glass of wine while writing. Most likely the quality of those words left much to be desired, and yet it was a sign of intent. Many would have had the good sense to let such dreams go, but night after night I typed and typed. Year after year I persevered even when the words dried up and there was nothing but the echoes of what used to be. Not much has survived from those early days save for those few photos, yet the magic is still within me. Many trade in their dreams, but I kept mine in a safe place far from the hands of those who would’ve screwed them up and tossed them away with the trash.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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