Rooftops

I scare people because I have many ambitions. Truly, I have only one. 

One morning I wake up in an apartment that is my own. It's not big, and not necessarily spotless. There are clothes idling on the floor surrounding a simple, white double bed, and a first inch of sunshine winks on the horizon. It leaks through the window and causes a luminescent stripe upon my white sheets. It's 5:43am, and although the apartment has only three rooms, there is a questionable metal balcony; accessible through large French windows. Here is where I take myself, whether wrapped in duvet or towel, to witness the sunrise over the rooftops of Paris. I do not care that I am alone, with a friend, a cat, or a lover. In these minutes, I am wholly myself, and that is all I need from life. 

It is but the only thing I am certain of: my Parisian rooftops. 

I spy

She watches him. Lingering on his every word. I spy from a distance, but she could never notice, her head is too full of him. I see her mind revisiting the same thoughts over and over: her body positioning, the movement of her hair - how it sticks to her lipstick and she curses the open window. Her eyes, how she widens them when he speaks, purposely, in hoping that he will discover a certain depth in them. And her words, how she forgets all her wit, her weird, her intelligence, and can only wonder how incompetent she is; she cannot lace together one single sentence. A fog has settled upon every interesting part of her mind, so instead she dawdles with her shoe laces and examines her fingernails. He remains as silent and frustrating as ever. So she soon resorts to desperation, asking the daily questions that neither one of them could care less about: 'are you going out this weekend?', 'doing much tonight?', and occasionally the mention of a mutual friend - since their conversations rely solely on the topics they have in common. Most likely why they rarely speak. He aims to inflict a flavour of humour, it's not funny, but she laughs louder than she should, stopping only when she hears it for herself and is horrified by the noise that escaped her lips. He turns away from her and her smile is trapped. Stuck on her face for the next ten minutes because she has forgotten she is smiling at all; thinking again of how she must look through his eyes, what words she can speak next, and how she can mellow her voice to make it sound more seductive. 

When he leaves I watch her still. I watch as she pulls headphones from her bag, as she finally notices and dismisses that smile. I see her eyes slouch, her body mould back into the seat. She feels useless because she cannot show him who she is. She knows she is interesting, that she can be compelling, confident, yet she is sickened by who she becomes when he is near. She wishes to tell him that she is so much more. But whenever opportunity is near, the cycle begins once more. 

Love: a myth?

How beautiful love looks. Divine hope shared by two people. If ever a friend is to tell me they have found love, I will always respond with 'how can you tell?', because as much as I indulge in supporting any kind of mystical force in this world, the concept of being in love leads me to confusion. 

Everyday social media notifies me on the correct form in which love is shown. Screenshotted paragraphs from tumblr that shame a screenshot from twitter, declaring some voices wrong and their own the only possible way for love to be established. One will tell me that love is known when you feel a literal pause of time in seeing that person. Another, will demand that the term 'love' can only be labelled to two people feeling utterly safe in the other's presence. Or I may come across a cluster of images; equally attractive, heterosexual couples, lounging side by side under palm trees, close ups of their holding hands - posed smiles and perfect teeth. 

So I think, if we are constantly being unconsciously fed definitions of love, then a person need only hold hands with another whilst watching the sunset to believe that they also have discovered the wonder. Because social media told them so. Or because you feel so secure around that one person that you'll more than likely greet them at the end of the alter in years to come. It has come to my attention that vast amounts of people are convinced in believing that they are in love since they have all the correct societal symptoms. 

You may have an undoubtable connection with a person, extreme lust, invincible admiration, but is that truly love? Or do people simply suffer spellbinding infatuations? Deep, romantic obsessions?

Is 'love' anymore than a concept? 

An empty noun? 

I would hope not. But even so, we've made it this far. 

Confetti

Sitting still is not for me

I would like to burst

Into a trillion pieces of confetti 

And disperse upon a thousand directions 

So that people still find me 

For decades to come.

I want to split my soul 

So that every piece of me 

Wakes up in a new part of the world.

I want to see everything

In complete naivety

Be shocked

Be moved

Be stolen

Content to be kidnapped by the breeze

why ?

Because I'm in need of a source of expression. A small space for sewing up sentences; lacing together ideas, and pairing thoughts with poetry. Because I am bored of waiting for my future. It has begun, and I intend to live out loud.








8.7.15