Temporary reprieve.

Temporary reprieve.

Its such a lovely day. The onslaught of intense heat can easily be avoided by finding some shade and sipping a glass of home made lemonade. The sky is the color of the ocean in the deep pacific, and the tendrils of clouds resembling the crests of white waves that foam onto shores of the worlds beaches. The weather reflects nothing of my mood, and if it did it would be London weather at its worst: gray, overcast, stormy, the sky the color of dull steel. Instead of frolicking in the sunshine, I’m sprawled on some plastic chairs in my terrace, pale but slightly flushed from the heat, wishing I had a bong to suck on. Or a line of cocaine. Or a blotter of acid. Anything that would bring color to my monochrome existence.

2 kool to function

“Sometimes, I ask myself if God could ever forgive us for what we’ve done to each other. Then I look around and I think, God left this place a long time ago.”

We watch movies like Blood Diamond, Shindler’s list… and our eyes shine with tears as we witness the injustices in the world. We learn that these movies, that seem like exaggerations, are reality. The value of a life differs depending on where you live. What your religion is. The tone of your skin. That is reality, embrace it. We sympathize for a while, maybe even cry and suddenly feel blessed as fuck for all the things we take for granted. Running water, the roof over our heads, food on the table. Freedom. The breath in our lungs. The untainted blood pumping through our veins….. yet our sympathies have expiration dates. How many minutes, hours, days, do we mutter a prayer of thanks for the things we have? How long does it take for us to treasure our cellphones and macbooks and actual books before we begin to feel unsatisfied with our material possessions again? How many of you roll your eyes when people mention “the starving children in Africa?”

The reality is, despite what happens to others, life goes on. We move on. It isn’t a matter of being ungrateful or apathetic. We are simply human.

“Do you think people are inherently good?”
“No. They’re just…. people.”

I wish my eyes were naturally this color.

My family fought again. This family tradition of ours, hurling obsenities and insane accusations at each other right before or during holidays was upheld once again. I was watching 300, and at this point I was so tired of the repetitive arguments that I just shouted for them to shut the fuck up, I’m trying to watch a movie here. Of course, they couldn’t hear me over their own raised voices. I stabbed at the volume button as high as it would go and fixated my attention on the numerous bloody bodies dropping to the ground already slick with the red substance. I couldn’t help but laugh at some of the scenes for no reason at all. Once things quieted down, I grabbed my last cigarette and headed to the terrace, my only haven in this dreary house. I smoked it and watched the starless sky, the exact shade of dull, midnight blue, wondering if the clouds were blocking the pinpoints of light or if the city lights were just too bright. I sat on the ledge, looking down morosely at the dirty asphalt street two storeys down. A stray cat slinked by, and I snapped my fingers to get its attention and waved. The cat studied me for a while, and deciding I wasn’t worth the attention, sneaked away into the dark gaps between the pools of the street lamps. I killed the cigarette, watching the bright orange glow of its head extinguish into a pile of charred ashes. I breathed in the cool night air, watching as neighbors walked by beneath me, oblivious of my silent scrutiny. Then I heard footsteps and the door to the terrace squeak open. My peace was disturbed yet again. My aunt saw the cigarette next to me, paused, then said nothing lit up her own. I didn’t even care that she found out my dirty little secret. And I think that’s where my apathy stems from. If I cared, the last strings of my sanity would be cut.

Kit. If you know him and know where this is from, inbox me, let’s gab about its awesomeness. 

When someone tells me they love me, it makes me want to scream. When those three words make it past their lips, It makes me hate myself even more. Tell that to someone who wants it, who needs it more than i do. Someone who could requite it. 

Then they tell me, “Chelsea, you’re the one person I know who needs love the most.”