Waiting for Godot

“Estragon: I can't go on like this.

Vladimir: That's what you think.” 

- Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

Over the past year and a half I have written sporadically. Wine soaked proclamations of love. Hopeless pleas of regret, sorrow, and irreversible anguish. Wallowing in misanthropic delusions my only solace. Tiny self-indulgent scriptures reserved only for me, to desperately clutch onto in self-inflicted moments of turmoil. Yet little of worth has been spilt from my quill.

Being creatively stifled has had an inherently crippling effect on me. I move through the world in a subdued state. Life passes me by in a swirl of muted colours that mirrors my jaundiced perception of reality. I have been completely stunted, entirely incapable of creative expression. A hollow shell of a human being trying to make sense of a nonsensical paradigm. Grappling for the energy to merely carry out the motions.

I fear I have become inexorably maudlin. Like a sad clown on the worst kind of summers day. Balmy and suffocating. The Great Pagliacci. Past his prime. Melted soft serve dripping down his pudgy fingers and wrists onto his chubby lap. Jaded and alone on the isolating path to self-destruction. 

To be entirely truthful, I have no idea where I am going. I am not where I expected to be at this point in my life. But really, who can predict these things. 

I tried picking up Bukowski but he only served to reaffirm my melancholy. The truth is, I am not entirely sure that we are ever capable of truly figuring it out. So we sit, drinking our cheap Scotch and sucking on our Marlboros, hoping for some inkling of enlightenment. 

But honestly, enlightenment is a lot like Godot. We can sit and wait and wax lyrical about our own conceptions of what it might be, but, like Godot, it repeatedly fails to arrive. The play ends, the house lights turn off and we are left in the dark, alone, no closer to to enlightenment than we were before. 

To prophesize that it is all doom and gloom, though, would be an insult to the truth. What other point to life is there than to grab onto the fragments of happiness that are flung our way and hold onto them with the utmost vehemence? Like a child unwilling to part with its favourite toy.

It only takes one person to alter our perceptions of reality, to banish the darkness and expose the cracks of light beyond the abyss, albeit in rare and infrequent effusions. If you happen to stumble across this person, do not let them go. You might not find another like them again.

Love & light,

M xx

there will be no trace that one was once two after I fade into you

I was once told that I am a tragic romantic, to which I protested with the utmost vehemence, utterly and inherently adverse to any and all articulations of myself as any version of an amorous fool. Yet, perhaps, as I twirl through the violent wind at that time of the night when a blanket of deathly silence covers the earth during the depth of a balmy and unrelenting summer, imploring him to follow me, chase me, consume me, I cannot help but wonder if the aforementioned description of me is entirely untrue.

The whiskey has muddled my mind and all I remember is uttering "Until we meet again" as I pull the door closed behind me, upholding the promise we made to never say "goodbye". Sitting alone in the uninhabitable dark after he has delivered me at home, the warmth of the golden liquid coursing through my veins, I am haunted by the feeling of his lips pressing against mine. The cool concrete of the long-forgotten basketball court against my skin, the faded graffiti etching itself into my back. Desperate caresses stolen under a cloak of inquisitive stars. The culmination of months of forbidden longing and illicit fantasies. The inevitable air of uncertainty looming ominously over our heads like a cartoon storm cloud, because we both know that our time together will be both tumultuous and fleeting.

"Have we inadvertently become the cliche we both detest with such loathing?" He asks me as we spin around on the aging, maudlin Round-a-Bout, the only reminder that this overgrown patch of grass was ever a play park. Presently it is haunted by the echoes of forgotten promises and sticky ice-cream stained fingers on a tranquil summer afternoon. The shrill cries of the laughter of children are nothing more than a faint residual memory filtering through the too-long blades of grass. We had spent the night flirting despairingly with a warm bottle of Jack Daniels he had secreted away in a hidden compartment in the dashboard of his car, expressing our malaise and unbridled abhorrence toward those prosaic and mediocre people who are shackled by the most banal characteristics of the platitudinous commercialized ideas of romantic love, vowing never to resemble them.  

I jump off the still moving Round-a-Bout and seize the cool metal with both hands to draw the ride to a halt as soon as he was close enough to face me. I remember the way the wind whipped through my hair as I held his face in my hands, afraid to let go, terrified at the thought of holding on. I tell him that it doesn't matter because in that moment we are limitless, cosmic, paraphrasing a line I had once read in a novel. All at once, in a most fortuitous and prodigious manner, I have the distinct impression that I am a character passing through an airport terminal and meeting eyes with a devastatingly alluring stranger in a Tolstoy novel. It feels a lot like serendipity. When I tell him this much he simply smiles and, cradling my face in his hands, kisses me. And suddenly, I am afraid that all we have left is borrowed time and stolen embraces. 

I told him that one day I would write about him, and now I suppose I have. 

Love & light, 

M xx 

Happiness Is...

The relative guilt I feel for abandoning my blog for such an extended period of time is increasingly overshadowed by my adoration for what can only be described as the most gorgeous creature ever to exist. My love for animals and my unrelenting persistence in begging my father for a puppy finally paid off. Despite my previous disdain for those people who Tweet, Facebook and Instagram countless pictures of their animals with silly captions, I have unwittingly become one of them, and the amount of fucks I give is less than none. Pepper is undoubtedly the most beautiful thing that has ever walked the earth. And our love for one another is unconditional. 

So I apologize for my abandonment of all of you two-legged followers out there, I have been rather consumed with the four-legged enigma who has stolen my heart. 

Love & light, 

M xx 

P.S. Stay tuned, more fashion-related and pseudo-intellectual (i.e. me being pretentious with my extensive vocabulary) posts to follow. 

With a Wink and a Smile and a Vial of Meth, I Took his Hand and we Walked through the Shadow of Death...

More and more frequently I am beginning to think of myself as a lump of clay. Never fundamentally one thing except something that can be moulded into every possible shape or form. Perhaps this means that I am like the water, constantly flowing, moving, changing. I have grown weary of the constant desire to please everyone around me. Fear is a powerful motivator. Taunting. Teasing. Always second guessing. Too scared that what I say will be the wrong thing. Surely I can't always be the only one making an effort. Yet I am. It is impossible to live up to the unrealistic expectations that are unceremoniously thrust upon me. My troubled mind is so clouded by the desperate need to hold together that which is rapidly slipping through my fingers that I can barely keep my head from toppling off my shoulders.This is a dangerous place to be in. I can feel it. I can sense myself tip-toeing closer to the edge of the abyss but there is nothing I can do to stop my perpetual descent.

There are fleeting moments of blissful oblivion. A poorly lit, smokey room filled with strangers. The smell of whiskey and stale cigarettes. The familiarity of my friends' faces, their infectious laughter. The heady seduction of the warm, golden liquid sliding down my throat and embracing my insides. The unbridled excitement of tasting his lips for the first time. I am ashamed to admit that this is my favorite part of being with someone. That shiver of anticipation at the temptation of the unknown, that which has not yet been conquered. The fear that the inevitable boredom will descend and spread until it consumes me will only come later.

Sex has become shrouded in shame. Done behind closed doors, in the dark, naked but unexposed. Leaving the scent of guilt lingering until it is scrubbed off under scalding water. Yet, the idea of another person's flesh against my own thrills me. A warm body to thaw the impenetrable facade.

And still here I sit. Constantly reapplying lip ice as if it will make a difference. My mind is a whirlpool of various streams of consciousness. I struggle to arrive at any semblance of coherence. If I have an essence I have yet to discover it.

Love & light,
M xx

Jumping Jack Flash

There are a lot of really crappy things that come with being an insomniac - the long hours spent angry and frustrated, tired but unable to sleep, and defeat - finally giving up and watching crappy late night TV - like a zombie, not really taking anything in. But there is one thing that, I, as a sleep-deprived neurotic, am privy to that most (well-rested) people aren't. 4am is the best time of the day. Just before the sun rises, when the world is still asleep and everything is completely still. There is a sort of eerie calm that washes over the world at this hour. It is almost like being suspended in a perfect moment in time that is completely unaware of past, future or even itself. And then you get to watch and hear the world wake up - which in the moment feels so magical that you almost can't believe it happens every 24 hours. First, the birds start to chirp, stretch their wings and shake their feathers. Second, the sky starts to lighten, so slowly at first that, unless you are really paying attention, you don't even notice it happening. Then begins the gentle hum of traffic in the distance, front doors swinging open and the voices of people starting their day. And just like that, it is as if that perfect moment of solitude never existed. That's why 4am is my favorite time of the day.

Love & light,
M xx

P.S.: Lovely photographs courtesy of my lovely dad :)