Can one get an addiction? An addiction to a person? To live them, breath them, to have them as the concept of each and every thought in your delirious mind? When all the sounds, smells and places are a constant reminder of them? And the irony is that you are in total awareness of your addiction, and these images and melodies are your mental torture of choice, but you crave it and sell your sorry soul for yet another fix.
You actually can. Certified.
Turn my mind off: its 960inch silver screen keeps showing me one and the same movie non-stop, accompanied by that painfully familiar musical score. I remember everything… I remember every single detail of every single moment, when those songs have been the actual soundtrack to our lives. I remember what words have been said, how our bodies have moved, how the sun has rolled down behind the clouds and how the raindrops glistened on the glass… Format my hard-drive, I want to exit this matrix: it is not perfect! And I do not have enough will-power to free my mind and fly away.
Love. Its quality and its passion have always been the big bang that’s created everything around me. Just listen to my stream of counsciousness. How beautifully it’s shaping that perfectly imperfect image. The problem is that the perfection is never aware of its perfection (sigh). It just exists peacefully in its very own two-dimentional world: no contradictions, no doubts, no unnecessary emotions. All those Pushkins and Hugos are long gone and nobody cares about knights in shining armour anymore. That’s why there is this itchy urge in me to perform trepanations on every other individual. Is there some secret code hidden in their cerebellum? Let’s get cracking (literally) and leave the hormones to teenagers!
I have seen the signs and ignored them. I should have stopped but I have been too high. So, I’ve kept on playing the games of my beautiful mind. Distributed all the roles, prepared all the voiceovers, selected all the decorations. I have fallen truly madly deeply with the perfect script! Now looking back at it, spending nights on thinking about it (honestly, sleeping is for losers) I have come to the conclusion, that this ‘love’ is a violation of Human Rights Act of 1998. Yeah… Has he ever consented to being perfect? Has he ever asked for it? He has never wanted it! He’s never thought that one day someone will drown in those deep blue eyes and lose herself in those big strong arms and never return to that 2D world called reality! Ha! Joke is on her.
Oh, an entire medical committee should have been called, because this is a condition I couldn’t have got a prescription for. My diagnosis is final and, I’m afraid, terminal. That imagination is a disease. I wonder if there is a procedure to trim minds, coz at the moment mine is running wild and free. The Pandora’s box has been smashed…
He’s always been afraid to be weak, that’s why he’s always been guarded by the thickest armour. He’s always been afraid to belong, that is why he’s walked away. Is it how it should be? Save yourself from an emotional overload? Permanently live on a ‘snooze’ mode?
So, sitting there dwelling over yet another text message – to send or not to send, that is the question – I’ve finally settled upon the following – not giving a twirly fuck about dwelling! To give a fuck, to be afraid, to save yourself, feel remorse or regret for something you’ve done whether it’s the right thing to do or not – is to always think that your glass is only half full. The most important thing is that there is a glass and it can be filled with whatever the hell you want! Live life to the fullest, don’t be afraid to say ‘I love you’, write poetry, dedicate songs, be crazy, laugh, cry– coz that’s allowed when you truly live and truly love! Even though it’s just my love, the mad and intense one, the difficult one, the one that sends you into an overdrive, the one that violates your rights. “My personal type of heroine”.
‘Sex on Fire’ popped into my speakers. I’m not going to a rehab…