Reflections

I just wrote some shit and it fucking blew donkey dick, so I deleted it.

It was fiction, with a loose basis in reality, but I couldn't convey what I wanted to without sounding sappy and overdone - a problem I have when writing, and perhaps in speech, too. We forgive certain sentimentalities in speech because it occurs in real time, but in writing, where there is ample time to reflect, reconsider and rephrase, we aren't afforded the same courtesies. So instead of a fiction, you get this memoir-esque bullshit. Sorry. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I mostly want to stop writing this blog and delete everything I've written because of its insignificance, its poor quality, its inability to evoke anything meaningful. It has ceased to be fun for me. It is an exercise in habit only; a nervous tick that I haven't been able to shake. At first I took refuge in it, it stoked the fires of creativity and helped me get outside myself. Now, though, it has become a means to dwell, to recapitulate and repeat myself into a vacuum audience. It is a source of infinite frustration, a way to compound any and every self criticism.

Life is too short to spend this way. Let's make an escape, shall we?

He was terribly unhappy, alone, dispassionate, brooding and dissatisfied. Nope, not an escape.

Let's try again:

The sun had set and darkness fell in navy blue all around them, quickly turning to black. Inky night, with its loveless eyes and heavy mascara, would be upon them soon. They embraced outside her parents house, beside their parked car, on the roundabout encircling a fountain bordered by her father's garden. He pulled her against him, indulging himself in the warmth and softness of her body as though it were a kindness meant only for him. Time slowed down and they swayed to the rhythm of each other's hearts, drinking in the moment, lost in the dizzying euphoria of love and abandon. A soft and far away music played, one they couldn't hear though they danced to its cadence. He had her wrapped in his arms completely, pulling her inward, feeling her heart as it touched his. It forced his eyes closed as a blissful smile bent the corners of his lips. The serene sound of running water moved around them and lent a fluidity to their movement that was soft and pure. The smell of her hair, the touch of her arms clasped against his back, the weight of her head upon his shoulder, the feeling of her hips pressed into his, all of it, lulled him into a floating opioid dream. Eternities passed as they waltzed through time in slow motion and, when he opened his eyes, he saw all around them flashing green fireflies pulsing with loving percussion. They hovered in the air, on the ground, in the trees, around the fountain. His lungs expanded and he sighed contentedly as he surrendered to the unreality of the moment. He couldn't see it, but at his chest, she opened her eyes too. Oh wow, do you see them? They're all around us. I've never seen so many before. Where did they come from? This doesn't feel real. This isn't real. Is it real? It's magic.

It was.