Seeing Through the Dusty Glass

It’s been a while since my last blog post. So, let this one, just this one, be something about love, about lust, and about whatever it is in between those two.

Yes, this is going to be cheesy – might be, might be not.

There’s no editing involved – this is raw, random emotion that has been bugging me for a long time. Guarantee, there is no hitting the backspace – except for fixing misspellings. Spelling words wrong is nasty, ugly business, it’s like dumping your face in recently used toiled bowl.

The emotion is raw, I said, it’s about love, or lust, or something between the two. It boils my insides, twists them around, and I want to barf. but I don’t – I know I should – but I don’t, instead I hold my breath and let my face go purple.

I see her, through the throes of two dusty glass windows.

It’s a sign. An omen that gnaws deep in me. It’s an ugly feeling. Ears burning hot enough to make french toast with.

But it’s a great feeling, tingling sensation. Reminds me of the good old days, the simpler days when anyone’s real problem was getting a decent grade to make parents smile. Yes, those were the days of simpler times I envy so much.

It pisses me off when she paints her lips red, pisses me off when she adds artificial color to her cheeks, pisses me off when she doesn’t look back through the dusty glass.

But that’s how it is. I finally understand why people write about other people – well, besides killing them off in their novels. No, this one is wild, the feeling. It’s dangerous. It’s deadly. It’s like some ghost-hand reaching through your mouth, taking hold of your tongue, and pulling it as far back until it snaps.

And you die from the whiplash.

Fucking painful. Shit flies too fast. And instant relief of nothingness. That’s how the game is played.

She laughs, cheekbones high, eyes smiling – saying that it’s intoxicating is a cliche, and a big fucking lie. I’ll say it, it’s like being stoned – though I’ve never experienced it, but that’s how I figured it would feel like. I’d stare, straight into her eyes, only a moment too much when she locks sight with me. Awkward as fuck, yeah, but hey, it feels good.

Stoned hippies staring at the sun, keep it up, and end up blind as a fuck – driving on an icy road while some drunk lady gets all naughty and hungry and grabs you there and you hear the slopslopslop, and you get distracted and bam! You dead.

I must have read that somewhere – yes, Neil Gaiman’s American Gods.

Our conversations are plain, small talks about how manly Brad Pitt and Edward Norton are, or how fucked Mr. Chuck is (there are a few known men with that name, take your pick), Tate, breakfasts on lunchtimes, and some few geeky stuff. Yes, we manage a few laughs, a few smiles. But there is nothing deep, nothing equivocal, only eloquence of ego.

I need a blender, a lawnmower, or a straight razor to shave my beard.

But that’s all there is. Now I see the point. Jotting stuff down like this. I get it. And it’s a sad feeling. Silence, and broken, never getting that whiff of fresh air – the conveyor belt is jammed with all sorts of little shit that messes up all the mechanism that makes someone tick.

And I realize that I don’t have to keep this silence – no, not to her who pisses me off. But the one who has my back, despite all the many years of hardships we’ve been through. It’s an epic disaster with her, but there’s no silence – laughter, tears, the warmth of fingers interlocking. There is no silence, no words needed to fill the void. It’s a story worth telling, it’s something worth continuing till we grow old and saggy and frail in our porch, to the moment when we lay to the ground. It will be a fulfilling life.

Do or Die, Jared Leto of 30 Seconds to Mars pretty much nailed it. And it’s this. Nothing else, no more, it’s a life full of treasures.

Fuck that dusty glass. I see clearly.

Now, I will fucking puke.