This is an encrypted message. This is code. I trust you’ll be smart enough to decipher it. It’s encrypted because let's be real honest, there's a few people who would love to think that I wrote this about them. I know you hate that.
When I feel scared by the intensity of a situation, I try to exercise control by making sure I have ALL the facts, and then picking and choosing who else gets to receive them. This is probably why I’m an astrologer.
I told you, the ecosystem of my life has to be a pristine, pure kind of clockwork now. The walls of protection cannot be breached. We’re in the business of concocting miracles, in the age of the apocalypse. I’m still here, but floating on a different layer, a new sheet of ether. From up here, colors and shapes and sounds buzz differently, everything is alive, everything stares back. Stomping through the hills of the land of dream screens, hiking to sex rap, getting angry at artificial intelligence and wondering why everything here is backwards. Why should love ever involve pain. Why I have historically wanted to destroy things that make me feel too much.
And I do, I do, I do. I really love you in a way that is deep and timeless, and doesn't seem to follow the Disney Princess la-de-dah bibittiy bullshit programming. It doesn’t make any linear sense. You can try to dance around it and not look at it, but I know you feel it too. Because energy doesn’t lie, even though we can- and we make lying look like a goddamn sport.
Sometimes love has it's own clockwork, life, shape, path, whatever. And when two people don’t agree or see eye to eye, the love part sometimes doesn’t care, it just keeps going. So if our love was a plant, or a child with an adult face who knows far too much, it was told it wasn’t real. It was told that it can’t exist, and it has nowhere left to live. It looks absurd to everyone else, abstract and depleted of any nutrition. It wasn’t given enough sunlight or validation for how sacred it was- so it just sits there, stagnant, still completely absurd.
So what do we do? We can’t buy real estate for it in outer space. Do we let it rot, sediment, become fossilized in the peripheral? I try to put borders around any speculation. I try not to think about it, I try to build narratives around it, I try to keep walking and talking my way away from it. I try to let it exist in the background. I tell myself that I was just wiping the bits of myself I didn’t like, onto you, in hopes that I could fall in love with those misshapen fragments. The ones that aren’t so beautiful. I tell myself I just poeticize the person I sleep with the most. That the architecture of how you would hurt me was built into my body long before I had a choice. Our pain recognized each other. The pain I felt, became a messiah. A slingshot towards something higher. You were maybe just a catalyst. And there's a different untainted version of us somewhere, somewhere tropical. Where no one knows our last names. And you're diving into the ocean and I’m healing and the air isn’t poisoned, and you don’t get scared shitless when I look at you.
I know where you live, I used to live there too. You aren’t one of them though, you are one of us. I’m not interested in anything short of self revealing confessions. Your dreams are begging to be listened to, without the temporary slide into the two dimensional abyss.
There's one coin left in this fucked up pinball machine. Don’t use it til your reflexes are ready. Don’t use it until you are lucid.