The Cult Of The Famous And The Dead
Being a guest inflicts a surgical light on complacency in a relationship. Calling the meaning of our lives into question. Deep breaths and clean thinking. Arbitrary movements, an outside analysis of a life curated without a care for design. How protective of our beginnings do we need to be to secure ourselves in life and reality?
Every movements gives away our portraits.
I play parts in my own disasters, in charge, how ever fleeting of my own chaos. Trying to deny something unusual is happening. Are we part of a spiritual something?
No, not just Jesus-God, Allah-God, God-God.
A concrete connection that reaches to you, to me, to everyone else. My perceptions of all this are my own, untouchable by group-you, but I want to know if heart-ache wrenches your stomach like mine. The last time my heart was broken, my chest hurt, my heart felt painful, as if missing a beat.
The less I am connected the more I feel like I'm attached to this whirring spinning thing. Which doesn't make any sense, not really. There's people out there having families, starting careers, traveling the world and enjoying ever second of it.
Here I am, hazed with a hangover.
The world is watching me as I try to plot my next move, and it feels as though everyone is on tenterhooks waiting to see if I fall, to see if I fail. Failing and falling. I have the best friends, I have the best boyfriend, I have all the support I could ask for. I'm a lucky little cunt at times.
If I told you a secret, could you keep it?