Arriving back to my "home" country after a trip that was a dream of a drunk Tim Burton (mind the spelling if wrong), with angels and drunk sex gods in one episode and hellraising soul ripping beasts on the other. Floating barely for four months from week to week. Small assets, big efforts, even bigger dreams and pulling head by the hair to keep above the water line.
Then old blighty thought to give a second chance, to perish or to prevail. But what if you are already struggling to get something up and running. How would you compromise, to be able to earn as much as needed to speed things up, get back to her again, maybe, god forbid, set some path for a common path with assets thus taking what all, each, every and any cell in your body opposes. What everybody in your environment considers as a fuckoff success while you know, that you are just dying because all you are is driven and posessed by the wild winds swirling in this detachment vortex.
Probably I was not really wanted there. They just came back from even downer under. NZ, the other boot, as we used to call it. Our history had a by-chance parallel running for a week in the country of Attila the Hun. More like casual offenders of faith than a match setting waypoints. I feel abundant and a steamroller in words, gestures, acts and care. Nobody would fucking like that. But cramming all I want to pass on in just five days with carefully managed friend-like hours, is tough as hell. Like trying to build a snow castle in an hour, on the beach. Rather have a drink, and go for a fucking easy swim.
I still feel her as being every part of me, but I know that I mean more trouble being there than being anywhere else. You can manage when you log in and drop a mail, can manage what happens and what to share. Me being away is just more manageable and this makes perfect sense when just visiting for short, shit so simple, so fucking difficult to make it understood. Maybe I make myself overimportant anyways. She talks high about me before others, but maybe it is all to please my appetite for self-fucking-admiration. What if. Shit thoughts. This could be so easy and rolling to be so fubar. This way I will be so fake in her honest self. Fake, untrustworthy and even CIA level scary, just a feeling, but gripping as it is hard to breath with it. To know this and not being able to counteract - because due to plausible denials this cannot be addressed, because something is so tuned off in our channels - just kills any bit of living sould in me.
Beautiful, with wierd ways. Loopholes and love confessions for else, tough Hamburger Hills of the evening soul.
I locked myself in a predicament in Brighton. Only I know that I don't give a shit. This is not my goal, but need to have a couple of stands for safety so I roll with it, I can, I always could, nights are there to create. What WE would truly want, together, that would be my Goal. The one to move damn hills for. What if slowly I have turned into a whining fucker, a mercy fucker for whom you would give a fuck to keep pseudo-happy, paloma faith got it right there. So derailed understanding of me, so damn derailed.
But I am hooked. I have split seconds of normal me when I can forget and be with her and forget that that is could just kill all we have. I feel strong, and feel man again. Then I became a loathsome wanker, cause words just don't tell, they just reiterate.
They say, a man's only purgatory is a woman. I am on the barby-grill, damn fucking sure and lovin' it, cause love all the tastes. But want her, beyond comprehension. Just glide, evolutions not revolutions. Can be done. The rest on this world is fucking plastic. Wasted selectively.