We'll Meet Again

Written September 2008.

Impulsive behaviour. Singing, swearing, smoking, reaching for five inch red stilettos and a fur coat, seconds from the staring, stark white door. Intent on revealing all. Determined to dive into disastrous depths in which I could divulge the dark and dangerous. But that would merely deter and alcohol is not always a reasonable excuse.

Not when you're drunk every morning.

I desire deeply to forget observing and remember the way it feels when you stop thinking and just inhale the atmosphere, reach out and touch the things that look pretty. That beautiful feeling I had one evening when I endeavored to obtain cigarettes upon realising I had smoked them all bitterly, whilst thinking about how a man whom I Loved was laid as hollow as those seashells we collected compassionately, and whilst searching silently I discovered in an empty cigarette packet, a half of a cigarette. I'd speedily stubbed it out one night down town when my taxi arrived and placed it back in my pocket thinking I would smoke it the morning afterwards. But I hadn't. And Now I had some nicotine to numb the gnawing sense of nebulousness.

I wanted that again. But almost as like to any other drug or high I'd chased it came to an end after a short while. What if that feeling of content would stay with me the way it does in my dreams when I'm swinging in a seedy, smoky jazz club and breaking hearts with Bojangles; Instead of feeling as though whatever path I proceed along, I'll lose a part of myself somewhere amongst the incomes and the ignitions of middle class cars.  

I want glamour. My glamourous drugs, my leather trousers, my red lipstick left lingering on my takeway coffee cups, a claim to the world that I was here, breathing in the ecstasy of rock 'n' roll. But I grow tired of knowing that my lungs are tarred and my liver is laced with toxins derivative of the most decadent parties.

But it's nothing. Just Nothing.What would really have been something is when walking past our highschool late at night all those years ago, we'd climbed over the fence like he suggested and broken the rules. I wish I hadn't been so prim and prude about the situation remarking on cameras and convenience. I wish I'd taken his hand and ran wildly into the night with him and not cared if we got caught. I think about this frequently. After discouraging myself for so long from telling him he's worked his way into my subconscious mind I have deliberated daringly that I have nothing to lose anymore.   

And I'm so proud.