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Every Beautiful Thing

2/23/2016

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I find so much sadness in knowing that someday I'll stop writing about her too. 

With these "epic loves" of mine there is every intention to write novel upon novel about them however after a few thousand words or about a dozen pages of my lovesick ramblings, it has to come to an end simply because they have given me nothing more to write about except how terribly miserable my life has become without them in it... and even that has to stop eventually. There is only so much pining one can do before it becomes so repetitive, anger-laden and self-destructive that writing becomes a dreaded chore - a painful reminder instead of an outlet for the uncontrollable stream of thoughts that wage war inside my head. 

There is always the hope that she would be something more than that - something more than them. I cannot ignore, however, that she is no longer the muse that she used to be to me. She does not inspire me to write so much as she depresses me to do so. I want to write of the happiness and the reverence but I cannot now as it would be far too untruthful. I can no longer pretend that I wholly adore everything about her because she has managed to anger me to a point where I cannot feign an ignorant affection. Furthermore, I wish it were so simple as to say that I did not love her or want her - that would be untrue as well. In fact, it is my love for her that angers me. It is my inability to remove her from my mind that is so incredibly frustrating.

I cannot trust her with distance - which is something my  affair with her shares in common with those who came before her. They dwindle and die to me by their own doing. It is their lack of desire for me that kills. It is painful to say the least - to know that people who I want to love so deeply have absolutely no intention of returning my affection or my attempts to stay in touch. I don't need to see someone everyday to maintain any kind of relationship with them nor to continue to love them - perhaps that is why I still feel the same way about her after not having seen or heard from her in ages. I wish she wanted to talk to me. I wish she wanted to see me... enough that it would inspire her to actually do something about it at least. I've seen what she's like when she wants something or someone - she takes it, she gets it. Nothing stands in her way. But I suppose, I'm not the drug she craves nor the guy she wants to fuck. I'm just the silly girl that cannot help but give her everything that I can. I'm just the girl who sees her face in every crowd, who sees a head of curly hair in the distance and prays that those curls belong to her, who hears her voice so loudly in my head that it makes me jump. I'm just the girl who cries over her, who is kind of dying over her and the fact that I have nothing to offer her.

If I tilt my head back for a split second; if I am removed from the present and allowed to reach back into my memory, I see her so vividly. I am happy in distant dreams, fantasy and distant wondering... but never here and never right now in my physical occupation of space and time because she's not here. I'm starting to wonder if she'll ever be here again. I wonder when the memories will no longer inspire such joy and excitement. I wonder when I will forget. The only certainty about life is that there is death. Every moment, second, and instant lives and then dies just as we who are born are fated to die. Memories that are forged and stored are fated to fade or become forgotten or die when we do. Is that peace - our natural amnesia, the perpetual dying of the present? If I have forgotten what it means to love her, is that peace or is that just forgetfulness or ignorance in itself?  

When my heart no longer knows you, will I have peace?

It hardly seems plausible, at this point, that I could forget her. How did she do it? How did she manage to forget me? I thought that surely I would be memorable enough.Yet here I am, thinking of all the ways I could have made our moments last just a little bit longer, the ways I could have made them unforgettable. It's too late now. She was already forgetful to begin with - why did I not see that that would mean she would never be able to love me back because she would always forget that I was worthy of that love. I lack the resources - the time, the money, the energy, the proximity, the courage or the sanity to keep reminding her. That's why I have nothing to offer her... because I am in no way worth remembering.
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I've never felt invincibility
Alongside such intense vulnerability before.
That is because she inspires
The truest of contradictions.
Imagine the collision
Between fantasy and reality,
My perpetual irony,
That is
Her.
There is the frantic searching,
The panicked yearning
To find mental spaces
Without fear -
One where she can be near
Without causing me to freeze.
She scares me
Because
She is every beautiful thing.
She is every complicated, crazy, magical thing
That a person could hope to be.
Just look at her for long enough -
You'll see the way she glows,
The way it looks as if she knows
Every secret that you've ever tried to keep.
Human potential is reached In her moments of excitement.
I've watched her enjoyment
And thought,
"She's what my happiness looks like."
I can do little to adequately describe
The soft quaking, the quiet aching I feel inside
Because
She moves me.
She is ruthless, she is gentle.
It astounds me.
It's impossible to feel any more alive
When she smiles.
It's impossible not to feel
The electricity in the spaces
Between her fingers
Or the way that
She tends to linger
On my lips
Long after she's left.
But I can't deny
That she's killing me
It's not a spectacle,
It's not on display for the world to see.
She kills me inwardly
And discreetly
But nonetheless completely.
It's slow and torturous
And I can feel
The burning in my bones.
There are flowers In her eyes.
There are galaxies in her mind.
She is infinity upon infinity,
And still she takes the time
To pity
Me.
I am pulled
To each extreme,
I am violently confronted
With the rawness of being.
The trauma,
The trauma,
Oh, the beauty of being.
Too scared to touch her,
Too guilt-ridden to want her,
Too angry to forgive myself for loving her.
She deserves a perfection
That I cannot muster.
She is a goddess
And I am a monster.
I am fated to pretend,
Fated to be still,
Fated to let her be
Without me
While I am brought to my knees,
Chained in awe,
Choked by the vastness,
Humbled by her.
I exist in a space
Of rapid delusion.
I exist in a space
Of immense confusion
Yet clarity looks like her,
Bravery roars as she does.
I know,
With unwavering certainty,
That there is nothing that I can give her.
Because
She is already every beautiful thing.
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Calypso

2/13/2016

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"In the days of myth and legend, the beautiful Calypso, daughter of Atlas, ruled the wine-dark seas, and all sailors everywhere both loved and feared her."

I find inspiration where there is profound contradiction and if you know anything of the legend of Calypso - whether it be within the context of Homer's The Odyssey or Pirates of the Caribbean: At The World's End - you may agree that I've found quite the muse. However, the true inspiration behind the latest of my mixed media creations is not so much the myth or the legend itself but rather a mere mortal who exudes such serenity and ferocity simultaneously that she is practically transcendental.

My creative process is very difficult to describe in a general sense - it's just about as unpredictable and inconsistent as I am myself. I go through phases of non-stop creation and phases of complete creative drought. An idea or concept usually sneaks up on me and then I follow through with it however, I have yet to maintain a steady stream of inspirational influences to constantly be creating. I do try. My art is far too impactful upon my soul and sanity for me to be able to separate myself from what I want to create. Therefore, I find myself in spaces where I cannot find words and I cannot find faces hidden behind blank canvases because to create takes an energy that I find myself too often depleted of.
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I am thankful that I have a friend like Anri who inspires an energy within me to be able to create. That is why when I think of her, I think of a very unique wielding of power. She has an adventurous spirit that casts life as something which ought to be courageously explored and marveled at. I do not think that, even in my happiest and most joyous of moments, I have ever so gloriously embraced and wrestled with sheer mortal existence in the way that she has - in the way that she does. Her soul is the formation and crashing of a tidal wave, the tossing and toppling of the earth from a violent wind. Her soul is a waterfall feeding a gentle mountain stream, the rustling of leaves and long blonde hair in a cool breeze. She is a chaotic and calming beauty that I have yet to know fully and I know there is always more to be discovered about her.

I have learnt more about my own mind and my own abilities from her than I have from most if not all of the people in my life who were named my teachers and mentors and authorities. The pure wonder of this fact is the effortless. She is so incredibly real to the point where most things and people who stand alongside her (if they are lucky enough) seem blurred, animated, fabricated by comparison. She is a breathtaking truth amidst a world so heavily laden with lies. I am so thankful.

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Dear Anri

May you always laugh loudly and louder still in the faces of those who give you disapproving stares and glares.
May you always hunger for adventure - there is always something "just around the river bend" for you.
May dark times that you face only give greater contrast and further illuminate the times of joy you will surely experience.
May those who anger you and the situations that frustrate you turn into an opportunity for you to educate and enlighten.
May you come to truly know and appreciate your greatness, your power and your beauty.

From the sloping sands to the endless sea, I love you.
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    Jillian Lawrence

    South African. 20-something. Hopeless Over-Thinker.

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