the thing about keeping a secret blog is the fact that i could actually write ANYTHING about what i think and feel and nobody will actually ever find out. hopefully. sort of. because, of course, a part of me secretly hopes that you would come across this in this big-ass digital universe.
and maybe figure out that the stuff written here is all about you. yeah that’s a strikethrough right there cause i wanted to erase what i wrote but i actually shouldn’t because, WHO THE HELL AM I EDITING THESE THINGS FOR?
It’s a fucking online diary. If anybody actually reads it, nobody’ll really know who the fuck I am.
Whew. That was quite liberating.
Okay. I don’t know if this will be a one time thing or not. I’ve really worked hard in trying to keep a sense of literary-ness to this blog. Sort of really churn out some really quaint stream-of-consciousness lovey-dovey shit that despite it’s stink of red hearts and romatic ek-ek (now, THAT sorta culturally places me at the moment, damn) would still sound and read really well. Well, what can i say. I’m a very poetic romantic. Or a very romantic poet. Or whatever.
So here I am now at the moment actually trying to figure out why I’m doing this again — ? Ah, well, because I’m home alone and sick and sort of getting lonely and I just watched a movie called Bridesmaids and before that watched a bootleg of Book of Mormon and in that bootleg a man was laughing from the audience and his laugh just sounded a lot like yours and that got me thinking of you then the rest of the day. Yeah, especially while watching Bridesmaids.
And I am writing this down because I don’t know how else to put it. I really don’t. Usually, if something poetic or metaphorical or eclectic or what-not comes to me, I just write it down. Eh well today, this is what came to me. And I figured, why the hell edit? Why not write it down? It lends a different voice to the blog. That’s not quite the blog but well, it’s still my voice and it would be refreshing to read this in the future. Okaaaay I wouldn’t really know that yet but I am anticipating that this would be a refreshing read amidst all the other stuff I’ve already written here. (NOTE TO SELF IN ALL CAPS: DO NOT LET THIS VOICE BE A STANDARD VOICE OF THE BLOG. KEEP CALM AND FINISH THIS ENTRY AND GET IT OVER WITH.)
This is actually pathetic because I’m setting up myself for it. Looking for the mushiest tracks I could listen to to get me in the mood to keep writing. Which is also becoming interesting because I actually want to use this as a study for an upcoming monologue I should write. Yeah, truth to follow. Haha. I didn’t think I would be writing a monologue but I think after this entry I should.
So where was I?
Ah yes, I’m about to find myself a cheesy song to write to. Haha.
Okay the song is called I Want You
Yeah. Honey, I want you so bad. On a lot of levels. Cause the nights we spent together weren’t very bad either.
And before I get started on that I am going to go back to why I started thinking of you in the first place. I wanted to ask my friend if when he downloaded the bootleg of Book of Mormon he consciously sought a copy that would bring me nights of demise. Or whatever. I couldn’t think of a more dramatic-but-not-too-mushy word. I hate how the guy who kept laughing at the insane moments of the play sounded just like you. I hate how, in the middle of jokes about AIDS and Christ I had no one but you in my mind. How the mind’s eye betrays me by playing a slideshow of your face, the way you laugh, smile, your hair, you beneath me, you inside me, you squeezing your nose into my nape. I hate how instead of clicking on a song a click on a spoken word video that puts me in a mood that takes me away from this voice and brings me back to that voice that fantasizes about you like you weren’t real. Like i could never have you and could only write about you like a poem I couldn’t own, a metaphor that could not be real. Something my hand couldn’t hold. Something that is not concrete. That could only be read meaning into but will never be what it really is.
So that’s about it, just at the splitsecond the poem ends I realize the truth about why I had to write you into the night like this. To tell myself that you are real. And that there is no certainty in ever having your or never having you. That I wish i could stop writing you into poems and verses and maybe hold you for real someday. That the pain would stop being so imagined and distant in my head. That when I hold you next time, you will read these words with me and laugh and on another week we will curse each other for having loved so much and given so little. And maybe embrace again. And laugh again. And stroke each other’s hair and stare into the night under your room’s dim yellow light. Why does your laugh have to resound in my head?
And that’s how love is when it is real and you cannot deny it no matter how hard you try to hide under your sheets and pages and pages of yellowed sheets. Paper, I mean. It rhymes on its own. It finds its layers of meaning. It finds its voice. It finds its own.