Saturday, March 21, 2009

until we bleed


Kleerup (with Lykke Li) - Until We Bleed

So, you go on pretending.

Pretending that it never really mattered, that it never really meant anything. Pretending that the film script in your mind ran alongside the director's cut of IRL. Pretending that everything means what it should be. Pretending every task means something else and it's familiar, we've heard this before, we've heard this too many times. We've heard this enough.

But it's never enough, and it never will be enough. Or maybe it will. Maybe this is the way it's supposed to work. Maybe maybe maybe. Maybe you forget that this is what is about. That there is no "maybe" except for the maybe of the now, this exact moment, this exact song, this exact sentiment carved on the surface of beating little hearts and tired eyes and blistered heels and--maybe. Maybe it's meant to hurt, maybe it was meant to disappoint, maybe each adventure is a gateway to yet another, and eventually leaping through fields and castles and locked bridges and strange warehouses and long concrete blocks and cobblestones that hurt in sharp straight heels there is some secret that is hidden and disguised better than any other and this secret, yes, this, this is the one. The last and final and only one but when you find it it slips so easily through your fingers and in just that moment you remember and realize what it was all for and that, that moment is when you suddenly forget.

And this secret drops like a parachute slow and soft and steady, bellowing pastel bloated curves down a perfect painted sky and green grass fields and it lands, still and dead and trodden beneath footprints of the hundreds and thousands and millions who'd walked this path before, uncovered this secret and then forgot. Forgot and destroyed it and as the seasons swirl around you and the world dances through its maybes and the wind becomes less harsh but a sudden drop in temperature is like a sudden hammer to the head, bloody and painful and it stings and hey, just a month ago it would have been a blessing but now it is a danger.

Elsewhere: the streets and wind the strangers passing by and their stories wrapped around them like coats and cocoons in the winter but now it's simply dissolving in front of your eyes, and as freudian slips bubble from thin cracked lips and voices and comments become songs, absolutely joyous, delightful, impossible songs songs songs that SING in your head you go on pretending and hey, it's working, it's erasing the edge of the gray sky and revealing the sunshine (but oh the sunshine it is deceptive it is bright and beautiful but when it lands on your skin it is just as cold and wretched) and the buildings are showing you a side you'd never noticed before and that door! It holds a design a painting a piece of art that's inspiring (but oh you know that it's trite and overdone and you've seen it before, before, before and again, again, again and it only ever really looks good in photos) so you snap the photos and smile to yourself (but oh that smile is jerked away so easily and it's one sided and plastic but you convince yourself that it's not because who is it for but yourself and it's only fake if it's meant for others but never if it's meant for you) and walk on and when you meet the gaze of someone passing by, and it's sudden and unexpected and it slices open your pretense and disguise and suddenly you are vulnerable and naked and shivering before them but you walk and walk with your head high and breath choked and suddenly it seems so impossibly bleak and dreadful and the pretense withers into a puddle by your feet and--you pause, finally.

You stop, and you watch it bleed.

1 comment:

  1. I think you are one of the best writers I know, & if you aren't ever published it's a travesty. keep on being amazing. you rock.

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