Every time we kissed I heard a choir in the back on my head, and instead of Halleluiah, they sung There’s got to be more to life. I felt like the damned bastard of highly fantasized demands, slow kissing to the melody of unattained completeness. It must be weird that the thought holding my body close to yours was neither passion nor belonging: instead, I felt for the way your grandmother framed old prints of Pathé Camera ads on your XIX century downtown bedroom. Truth is: if some of us love boys, others grow founder of ideas.
I never loved men as much as I loved their scenarios. Caring for tales and not reality eventually lead me to a love affair monologue. Still, my brain is the back-up dancer, the soundtrack, the Haussmann and the Fragonard for most of the masculine counterparts. Because men are obviously present, but not surely visible: I’ve always felt compelled to halt their lackluster imagination with my creative brightness. While most fall asleep in a highly careless manly manner after the job is done, I keep on dreaming like a virgin child at Christmas eve. Thinking about the mirrors hanging on his wall, and the dreams that once gazed those shaded silvery squares now covered with dusty abandonment, I further guess why my thoughts where also left to that same abandonment.
What is it that keeps a young girl daydreaming at night? No one asked.
I never loved men as much as love theirs scenarios, probably because I always felt closer to a neoclassical Cherry Wood canapé, than I ever felt to a men.
I don’t want us to fall asleep. I want you to awake me with a thunderstorm of ideas and I don’t just mean hyped nothingness on Loewe’s Amazona bag or Inez van Lamsweerde money cravings, I need your bedtime stories about stars above and there abide; I want this winter night to be bright and bold beyond the obvious IKEA bedside lamp. And for breakfast, rather than bread and butter, I demand celebratory cake with tea green frosting that reads “we won’t stop asking until we die”. Obviously, my wishful thinking does not ignore that in the morning after, instead of cake, I’ll bite the dust.
That Friday, I left on the early train for the city wondering what token of this Landlord heritage affair was meant to bring me closure. As I time traveled his grandmother’s hallway remembering the strong scent of humid wood which hunts the backbone of this ancient family, I knew that once again I came to the place I had never left. Childhood.
I never longed for him as much as I longed for his deep rooted sense of belonging.
They say Greek God Eros, was the son of Pénia (poverty) who throughout Aphrodite’s debauched mascaraed ball, throve in seducing Porus (expedient). Love, or Eros, that resilient concept who survived Titanic and sustains your reliance on over-expensive Lanvin dresses, is nothing but a newborn child, son of Pénia and Porus, who’s out and about seeking a sense of wholeness aiming to reach resolutions: fast. Like mother, we’ll search the world for closure. Every bit of lipstick, and every penny gone for wholeness aimed leather shoes, conceals a deep inherited poverty battling for male induced fulfillment. If some regard single men’s as the finishing line, others see intimate love as an insufficient winning prize. The latter are the unbalanced, unrested and somewhat raged souls who took on their mother side to know that regardless the achievement, papa will never care.
For us, ancient lovechild’s of need and poverty, there’s never more than wanting more.
they sung There’s got to be more to life. I felt like the damned bastard of highly fantasized
demands, slow kissing to the melody of unattained completeness. It must be weird that the
thought holding my body close to yours was neither passion nor belonging: instead, I felt
for the way your grandmother framed old prints of Pathé Camera ads on your XIX century
downtown bedroom. Truth is: if some of us love boys, others grow founder of ideas.
I never loved men as much as I loved their scenarios. Caring for tales and not reality
eventually lead me to a love affair monologue. Still, my brain is the back-up dancer, the
soundtrack, the Haussmann and the Fragonard for most of the masculine counterparts.
Because men are obviously present, but not surely visible: I’ve always felt compelled to
halt their lackluster imagination with my creative brightness. While most fall asleep in a
highly careless manly manner after the job is done, I keep on dreaming like a virgin child at
Christmas eve. Thinking about the mirrors hanging on his wall, and the dreams that once
gazed those shaded silvery squares now covered with dusty abandonment, I further guess
why my thoughts where also left to that same abandonment.
What is it that keeps a young girl daydreaming at night? No one asked.
I never loved men as much as love theirs scenarios, probably because I always felt closer to
a neoclassical Cherry Wood canapé, than I ever felt to a men.
I don’t want us to fall asleep. I want you to awake me with a thunderstorm of ideas and I don’t
just mean hyped nothingness on Loewe’s Amazona bag or Inez van Lamsweerde money
cravings, I need your bedtime stories about stars above and there abide; I want this winter
night to be bright and bold beyond the obvious IKEA bedside lamp. And for breakfast, rather
than bread and butter, I demand celebratory cake with tea green frosting that reads “we won’t
stop asking until we die”. Obviously, my wishful thinking does not ignore that in the morning
after, instead of cake, I’ll bite the dust.
That Friday, I left on the early train for the city wondering what token of this Landlord
heritage affair was meant to bring me closure. As I time traveled his grandmother’s hallway
remembering the strong scent of humid wood which hunts the backbone of this ancient
family, I knew that once again I came to the place I had never left. Childhood.
I never longed for him as much as I longed for his deep rooted sense of belonging.
They say Greek God Eros, was the son of Pénia (poverty) who throughout Aphrodite’s
debauched mascaraed ball, throve in seducing Porus (expedient). Love, or Eros, that resilient
concept who survived Titanic and sustains your reliance on over-expensive Lanvin dresses,
is nothing but a newborn child, son of Pénia and Porus, who’s out and about seeking a sense
of wholeness aiming to reach resolutions: fast. Like mother, we’ll search the world for closure.
Every bit of lipstick, and every penny gone for wholeness aimed leather shoes, conceals a
deep inherited poverty battling for male induced fulfillment. If some regard single men’s as
the finishing line, others see intimate love as an insufficient winning prize. The latter are the
unbalanced, unrested and somewhat raged souls who took on their mother side to know that
regardless the achievement, papa will never care.
For us, ancient lovechild’s of need and poverty, there’s never more than wanting more.
