This is a night for listening to the entire album…
This is a night for listening to the entire album…
Strange read but worth your time indeed
In all sincerity, I am not convinced that I will be able to thoroughly explain the importance of me being able to express my emotions. I am writing this because I want to share how you create the slightest tremors in my soul, and how these resonate all over my body. I am writing this because you deserve to know how uneventful my life would be if I would not be able to see your smile every day. I should have thought about how I wanted to start this ode. Or perhaps write it in a draft first and re-write later. I prefer writing spontaneously, though. It makes this letter all the more vivid. Do not expect me to remain coherent, I am entirely incapable of focus with you on my mind. This will not be beautifully crafted poetry. All I can offer is raw emotions transformed into lines of text.
I could start by convincing you that you are the most perfect sentient being in the universe. I could list your traits and how I admire them. I could spend pages and pages on praising your brilliance and sense of humour. Entire libraries could be filled with lofty descriptions of your gentle and delicate persona, yet I prefer to describe the little things. The way you snigger at an extremely lame pun I just made. How you constantly suggest that wordplay and foreplay should be the same in our case. How you draw me in with your perfectly put phrases. How you aim to sweep me off my feet, and how you subsequently succeed.
Come to think of it, the English language is inadequate in reproducing the sensations of my body when our lips meet after a prolonged period of absence. How would I be able to describe the soft, silk-like touch of your fingers on my back, how they urge me to move into you, how they create sparks and fizzles in my brain? Not to mention other areas of my body. I can only offer to hold you close, worship you like a graceful goddess, stroke every inch of your body. No need for a palmer’s kiss, I prefer the lover’s delights, the passionate pastimes in the darkest moments of night, the droplet of sweat perfectly formed in your armpit, the tensioning of our feet, your clutching of the sheets.
I hope I will be able to fill up the rest of this page. At the moment, my only desire is to race across meadow and mountain, forest and front-lawn, stream and street in order to eventually end up on your doorstep, drained of energy, longing to rest in your lap. For the sake of poetic diction and my tendency to stretch our emotional to and fro, I will remain vigilant in my quest – and proclaim to opt for a stylistic attitude that does not contain archaic language. So far, I have notoriously failed. I hope you don’t mind it too much, I seem to remember you mentioning that my words undressed you faster than my hands ever could. Our love would require an entirely new dictionary. The corpus of you and me.
If you crave for the idle nothingness of my prose, I’ll whisper it to the little birthmark between your shoulders, incidentally, my favourite spot of your entire body. A chestnut speckle I adore to kiss once in a while. It makes you so much more beautiful, so much more real. I remember seeing it for the first time as you slipped off your shirt. Scratch that. It was my shirt. You’ve kept it ever since I so carelessly threw it on your bedroom floor. It’s yours now. I get inspired by seeing it casually draped over you, especially if it is the only piece of clothing on you. You always wear it while standing in front of the mirror when you get up at stupid-o-clock. Your auburn hair catching the first sunbeams of a summer morning, your smile melting away the sleep that lingers in the corners of my eyes. At that instant, I often beg you to get back into bed with me. My mind is a gutter, but you make me look up to the stars.
Let me take you by the hand, guide you through this maelstrom of thoughts and emotions. I’ll be your guide, your shining beacon. Hold on to me, just like we have always held each other. We will reach our destination, though the thought of making that journey with you provides me with a far better sentiment. Let’s go for a walk. I want your hands on my arm, your nose buried in my sweater, my eyes tearing up with the roughness of your blue woollen hat because I cannot stop myself from sniffing it. It always contains a whiff of your conditioner, mixed with that fabric softener I never seem to be able to find when I go out shopping for you. You are the only one I know that softens her hat. You claim to do this so it wouldn’t hurt my eyes. I love you.
Do you remember our midweek runaway to the sea? I still believe those gusts were urging us to hold on tight to each other. We were pretty impulsive back then. We didn’t bother to bring any luggage. One backpack of necessities. Just you and me failing to drink from our plastic cups, getting annoyed by the sand between our toes. A dreadful feeling to the both of us. After that, we came down with a terrible cold. Wheezing and sneezing, keeping each other awake. I brought you tea, you VapoRubbed my chest hair, getting it all messy. What followed was a series of hysterical laughing fits interrupted by terrible coughs. You sound so adorable with only one nostril free. Countless tissues and hilarious impersonations of Leonard Cohen. One of the best holidays of my life.
We braved ghastly precipitation, but in the end everything calmed down. Steady as she goes, no icebergs ahead captain. Though there are no more elemental anomalies, I keep on being wholeheartedly nudged towards you. Let me be your overcoat, I’ll protect you from raging storms. I’m assured you will have forgotten to bring extras. My impulsive lover, I adore your spontaneity and your giggling when I tickle you, playfully asking me to stop with an expression that asks me to keep going. Even though I can’t always stop water trickling down from your eyes, I can give you all the warmth and comfort you might need to get you through the storms in your mind. I’ll stay with you and bring you cups of tea, we can wheeze together.
I forgot to mention that I am writing this at the desk in our hotel room. A perfect place to write. A tiny strip of light is pushing away the curtains. I can hear robins singing, the soundtrack of life. It’s going to be a wonderful day, I can smell the scent of the forests surrounding the hotel. Spring in Norway is magnificent, just like you said. We can go hiking today, I googled the GPS location to a beautiful lake. Yes, my sense of direction is still non-existent, but I have found you! I hope you fancy some swimming. The water will be ice cold, I look forward to getting together under a blanket. At the moment, you are still asleep though, softly mumbling away, your body all twisted and curled up, your hair one big mess. You look more beautiful than ever. As soon as I finish this, I’ll crawl back in bed. If this would wake you, you’ll be delighted to hear that you can sleep in. There is no rush anymore. I have everything I need right here with me. I want to spend the rest of my days with you, I hope they will last forever.
R.I.P. Harold ‘Egon Spengler’ Ramis (1944 - 2014), may you keep busting them ghosts…
This is my dirty pleasure
Oh I’m sorry, I had no idea how this machine worked! // What a bunch of A-Holes…
We arrested these five on Zandar. Check out the rap sheets. (x)
Sitting in Starbucks reading and doing uni work. Proper student life this.
Some of the best places to write are coffee shops, don’t you think? :)
Perfect Sense | 2011 | dir. David Mackenzie
‘They kiss and they feel eachother’s tears on their cheeks
and if there had been anybody left to see them, then they would look like normal lovers caressing eachother’s faces, bodies close together, eyes closed, oblivious to the world around them because that is how life goes on. Like that.’
Chills every time I watch this film
Bachelor Paper Time!