I dipped my toe into the water,
and it was still delicious.
Selkie-fat and full of happiness,
sliding,
I bit down,
and my mouth filled with the sweetness,
of another's sweat.
Kultur, katte og æstetiske forsøg - forskellige former for nøgenhed
Don't sabotage yourself, he says. I do nothing else. Write.
What right do I have to create?
I want to tell stories, that's all. Beautiful painful little tales. I still ache for the plot. Throw some more at me. Let me fall, like Alice, into reveries. Let me slice myself open on heartache, hurting deliriously from the knowledge it all will end, it almost already has.
Well, it has.
We're in the after. There are no more kisses, no potential. She didn't become an artist, or a scholar, or any other kind of immortal. She's just slowly dying.
A kind of luck, of course. But still.
Write.
Shut up, I will.
The heart is heavy with melancholy, the mind is angry and hard. Want to do more art. Want beauty to be easily accessible in everyday life; not something to constantly compete for and never reach. Want more touch. Want to share life with a friend group like when we were students. Want to let myself be vulnerable again, be excited again.
I felt loved at this game and around it, and also intensely lonely. I felt beautiful and talented and also strange and clumsy and shaped wrongly and in the way. I want to dance five more hours of waltz; I want to start my own studio, making only games in the dark feminine aesthetic. I feel so much love. I want to drown myself in embraces.
The exquisite feminine sensation of discovering a whole new array of insecurities, you hadn't realised you were supposed to carry.
The little cakes I bake are also a sort of poetry,
nevermind the almond flour or the sugar,
they contain 1 tsp longing and as much hope
as you can locate in your cupboard.