Night Film

“Mortal fear is as crucial a thing to our lives as love. It cuts to the core of our being and shows us what we are. Will you step back and cover your eyes? Or will you have the strength to walk to the precipice and look out?” 
― Marisha Pessl, Night Film

I felt my life was mostly the live action epitome of existentialism - existentialism incarnate - with fragmented bursts of normalcy. My reality a single extended exhalation. I felt frustrated, angry, anxious, confused, but mostly, sad.

After a fitful night spent thrashing around between the suffocating sheets unable to embrace the solace of sleep, I finally managed to fall into a disturbed and restless slumber long after the sun had risen. 

I awoke less than an hour later, unsettled, an aching sense of discontent lingering like stale smoke around my shoulders and collar bones. These nightmares are frequent and unyielding.

Love & light,
M xx

Waiting for Godot

“Estragon: I can't go on like this.
Vladimir: That's what you think.” 
- Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

Over the past year and a half I have written sporadically. Wine soaked proclamations of love. Hopeless pleas of regret, sorrow, and irreversible anguish. Wallowing in misanthropic delusions my only solace. Tiny self-indulgent scriptures reserved only for me, to desperately clutch onto in self-inflicted moments of turmoil. Yet little of worth has been spilt from my quill.

Being creatively stifled has had an inherently crippling effect on me. I move through the world in a subdued state. Life passes me by in a swirl of muted colours that mirrors my jaundiced perception of reality. I have been completely stunted, entirely incapable of creative expression. A hollow shell of a human being trying to make sense of a nonsensical paradigm. Grappling for the energy to merely carry out the motions.

I fear I have become inexorably maudlin. Like a sad clown on the worst kind of summers day. Balmy and suffocating. The Great Pagliacci. Past his prime. Melted soft serve dripping down his pudgy fingers and wrists onto his chubby lap. Jaded and alone on the isolating path to self-destruction. 

To be entirely truthful, I have no idea where I am going. I am not where I expected to be at this point in my life. But really, who can predict these things. 

I tried picking up Bukowski but he only served to reaffirm my melancholy. The truth is, I am not entirely sure that we are ever capable of truly figuring it out. So we sit, drinking our cheap Scotch and sucking on our Marlboros, hoping for some inkling of enlightenment. 

But honestly, enlightenment is a lot like Godot. We can sit and wait and wax lyrical about our own conceptions of what it might be, but, like Godot, it repeatedly fails to arrive. The play ends, the house lights turn off and we are left in the dark, alone, no closer to to enlightenment than we were before. 

To prophesize that it is all doom and gloom, though, would be an insult to the truth. What other point to life is there than to grab onto the fragments of happiness that are flung our way and hold onto them with the utmost vehemence? Like a child unwilling to part with its favourite toy.

It only takes one person to alter our perceptions of reality, to banish the darkness and expose the cracks of light beyond the abyss, albeit in rare and infrequent effusions. If you happen to stumble across this person, do not let them go. You might not find another like them again.

Love & light,
M xx

there will be no trace that one was once two after I fade into you

I was once told that I am a tragic romantic, to which I protested with the utmost vehemence, utterly and inherently adverse to any and all articulations of myself as any version of an amorous fool. Yet, perhaps, as I twirl through the violent wind at that time of the night when a blanket of deathly silence covers the earth during the depth of a balmy and unrelenting summer, imploring him to follow me, chase me, consume me, I cannot help but wonder if the aforementioned description of me is entirely untrue.

The whiskey has muddled my mind and all I remember is uttering "Until we meet again" as I pull the door closed behind me, upholding the promise we made to never say "goodbye". Sitting alone in the uninhabitable dark after he has delivered me at home, the warmth of the golden liquid coursing through my veins, I am haunted by the feeling of his lips pressing against mine. The cool concrete of the long-forgotten basketball court against my skin, the faded graffiti etching itself into my back. Desperate caresses stolen under a cloak of inquisitive stars. The culmination of months of forbidden longing and illicit fantasies. The inevitable air of uncertainty looming ominously over our heads like a cartoon storm cloud, because we both know that our time together will be both tumultuous and fleeting.

"Have we inadvertently become the cliche we both detest with such loathing?" He asks me as we spin around on the aging, maudlin Round-a-Bout, the only reminder that this overgrown patch of grass was ever a play park. Presently it is haunted by the echoes of forgotten promises and sticky ice-cream stained fingers on a tranquil summer afternoon. The shrill cries of the laughter of children are nothing more than a faint residual memory filtering through the too-long blades of grass. We had spent the night flirting despairingly with a warm bottle of Jack Daniels he had secreted away in a hidden compartment in the dashboard of his car, expressing our malaise and unbridled abhorrence toward those prosaic and mediocre people who are shackled by the most banal characteristics of the platitudinous commercialized ideas of romantic love, vowing never to resemble them.  

I jump off the still moving Round-a-Bout and seize the cool metal with both hands to draw the ride to a halt as soon as he was close enough to face me. I remember the way the wind whipped through my hair as I held his face in my hands, afraid to let go, terrified at the thought of holding on. I tell him that it doesn't matter because in that moment we are limitless, cosmic, paraphrasing a line I had once read in a novel. All at once, in a most fortuitous and prodigious manner, I have the distinct impression that I am a character passing through an airport terminal and meeting eyes with a devastatingly alluring stranger in a Tolstoy novel. It feels a lot like serendipity. When I tell him this much he simply smiles and, cradling my face in his hands, kisses me. And suddenly, I am afraid that all we have left is borrowed time and stolen embraces. 

I told him that one day I would write about him, and now I suppose I have. 

Love & light, 
M xx 

Special Topics in Calamity Physics



"And I feel like I'm dippin' and divin'. 
My sky shoes are spiked with lead heels. 
I'm lost in this star car I'm drivin'. 
But my air sole keeps pushin' big wheels. 
My world is a constant confusion.
My mind is prepared to attack.
My past, a persuasive illusion.
I'm watchin' the future it's black.
What do you know? 
You know just what you perceive.
What can you show?
Nothing of what you believe.
And as you grow, each thread of life that you leave
Will spin around your deeds and dictate your needs
As you sell your soul and you sow your seeds
And you wound yourself and your loved ones bleed
And your habits grow, and your conscience feeds
On all that you thought you should be
I never thought this could happen to me." 

- Don McLean, Dreidel 

An imperceptible sigh. That is how I categorize my existence now. The slow and steady release of breath symbolizing my inability to hold on to the will to live. My perpetual decent into the various circles of hell. Dante's Inferno beckons me, with whispers that feel like thistles on my eardrums, blood trickling down the side of my face, the metallic aroma prickling my nostrils. I always thought of myself as a writer, yet I am barely grasping my ability to formulate the narrative, the lyrical dialogue, the intro, body and conclusion, as it were. I have lost the plot, a thoroughly post-modern dilemma, some might say. Is it ethical to call myself a writer if I am hardly wont to label myself human? Are the two really indissociable? My perception is warped, not unlike fun-house mirrors, distorting reality, drawing one into what lies beyond the twisted glass. A world of fear, loathing and disillusionment.

Love & light,
M xx 

Happiness Is...

The relative guilt I feel for abandoning my blog for such an extended period of time is increasingly overshadowed by my adoration for what can only be described as the most gorgeous creature ever to exist. My love for animals and my unrelenting persistence in begging my father for a puppy finally paid off. Despite my previous disdain for those people who Tweet, Facebook and Instagram countless pictures of their animals with silly captions, I have unwittingly become one of them, and the amount of fucks I give is less than none. Pepper is undoubtedly the most beautiful thing that has ever walked the earth. And our love for one another is unconditional. 

So I apologize for my abandonment of all of you two-legged followers out there, I have been rather consumed with the four-legged enigma who has stolen my heart. 

Love & light, 
M xx 

P.S. Stay tuned, more fashion-related and pseudo-intellectual (i.e. me being pretentious with my extensive vocabulary) posts to follow.