Deus Ex

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A shy smile and tender ankles that speak to me of what it means to believe in the good of people when most of the time they resemble dog turds on cocktail sticks. A sense of intimacy shared between sidewise glances and words that say one thing while meaning so much more. Pleasantries are perfectly acceptable, and yet wouldn’t it be so much easier to just kiss and fuck and run into the storm screaming at the top of our lungs? Wouldn’t it be far more satisfying to just quit the dreary chitchat and say it how it is without wasting another second? But the system is a difficult bitch to quit. Most wouldn’t attempt it even if they knew there was a way out, such is how hopelessly submerged they are. The do’s and don’ts. The norms and dirty social etiquettes and the deluded sense of self-importance that never fails to captivate. It’s weird how so many dig this shit. Even weirder that they base their whole lives around it without ever taking a chance to see how things might be if only they had the courage to do things differently. Those ankles of hers. Those eyes that cut through so many layers while all the time remaining so elusive. They shine like minarets, pulling me under and turning my bones to glue. This writing thing. This whole malarkey. To what purpose does it serve? To what truth do I really seek? Is it to just fuck someone who is the same as me, or does it run deeper? Is there something more? Something that will at last ignite these stale days? Those minarets, they pierce the night sky from so far away. They mesmerise like the deadlights that have stalked my dreams since the onset of puberty. The beauty of the unseen, and the danger of that which allures. The fire we seek and retreat from in the same, laboured breath. This state of being, it is an itch that feels so good to be scratched, of which then bleeds and hurts and turns into a wound that never heals. This air of agitation, it’s the mouth of a lover that begs to be kissed yet of which is forever withheld. This whole thing is absurd, but we keep the faith because anything less means death. We keep doing what we do because this is the only thing we know how to.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

4 replies »

  1. “The fire we seek and retreat from in the same, laboured breath. This state of being, it is an itch that feels so good to be scratched, of which then bleeds and hurts and turns into a wound that never heals.” Pretty much sums it up

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