i will be your guardian.

from one of my all-time favourite movies, cashback:

i read once about a woman whose secret fantasy was to have an affair with an artist. she thought he would really see her. he would see every curve, every line, every indentation and love them because they were part of the beauty that made her unique.

all of us are done for.

like usual, i am awake at a two in the morning doing what i always do: revelling in greatness and wondering two things.

1. what it would be like to be intimate (not just sexually — get that mind out of the gutter!) with a great.

2. what it would be like to be great.

but seriously, what does it mean to "be great"? i'm not very good at explaining things, especially the ones that maybe aren't meant to be, the ones that inspire people to explain them creatively. (am i making sense?)

which basically means i want to be chris martin's best friend. but some fellow name steven or something is chris martin's best friend. so i guess that option is out the window. NEED A NEW CAREER PATH.

(here is a good time as any to randomly note that yesterday, i made a new image folder just for coldplay.)


also, another question: why are we, the youth, in such a hurry to "grow up"? adulthood means responsibility in very basic terms, and isn't that what most youths reject? fuck yes i'm afraid of responsibility, it isn't the reason i'm not in a hurry to grow up. not entirely, at least.

i'm a great hypocrite. here i sit waiting for the day i turn eighteen. i guess part of the rush is being able to do things i can't (ie. drinking in public places although to be honest, drinking isn't fun for me. it's really just gross. WHAT UP HARRY POTTER!).

another part about rushing into adulthood is also escaping the label of the "teenager." i'm not going to lie, i really dislike being in public places at certain times of the day. which basically means the mall at lunch and after school.

i don't like generalizations of people who share something common. judgement happens, i get that. but you don't need to sneer at me because i'm a teenager. please, keep it to yourself.

maybe i'm just sensitive or maybe i care too much (if that is possible?). i don't know. but i really don't like the stereotype of a teenager: arrogant, irresponsible, non-respecting, almost anarchist, etc.

i know i'm not alone in this judgement thing and i know i'm a hypocrite sometimes. it annoys that i am, but it's innately human, so i'm a little bit comforted. plus the fact that i admit to it makes it just the tiniest bit justifiable in my eyes. self-centric or egoistic or selfish or vain or something? MAYBE. probably.

FUCKING CONTRADICTIONS.


do i sound cliché or what?! i really am a teen, aren't it? "I HATE LABELS," and "WE'RE NOT ALL LIKE THAT," and "i don't know," and "OH MY JESUS CHRIST WALKING ON WATER HARRY POTTER."

haha, i probably just got two people to read this just to say: "WHAT THE FUCK. YOU WROTE ALL THAT ONLY TO CONTRADICT YOURSELF?" and my reply is, "YES. YES I DID."

i'm also going to say that, "WAIT. NO. this contradiction is not the only reason i wrote today. my purpose was to be a good coldplay fanatic." i think i've succeeded.

i would also like to add that as much as dote upon chris martin, i think guy berryman, will champion and jonny buckland are equally as fabulous. in fact, i think will champion's viva la vida scarf is my favourite tour accessory or uniform or piece of clothing or whatnot from any band or musician. kind of EVER.

that is all.

i'm begging you for mercy.

i would just like to say coldplay is the fucking bomb diggity.

we weren't enough for each other.

today i share one of my all-time favourite poems. it is The Unfinished Suicides of My High School Sweetheart by Shira Erlichman.

For Jake

We were platonic high school sweethearts that fucked in the front seat
without touching and with our eyes open the whole time.
Our questions locked at the genitals like children to bicycles.
Our distant tongues sparked like forks dreaming of sockets.
We were virgin high school sweethearts that fucked with the seatbelts on
and the headlights blazing, daring passing drivers to stop and peek,
challenging cops to pull over beside us and question how safe our conversation was.

We theorized about masturbation, weed, (and the combination), football players,
our parents, Bone Thugs’ rapping techniques,
and what percentage of wrong was it to think of someone else while getting head.

We could achieve orgiastic ecstasy on a pile of purple sweatpants.
Our bodies fit together without being in one another.
We were music.
We were honest.
And that is something World Leaders are too scared to touch.
And we got angry. We got scared.
And we weren’t enough for each other.
And we were lovers.

It’s true: you were a man and I was a woman and the birds didn’t care,
and the bees stung the both of us,
but the level of intimacy made slobbering couples at school seem like
they had the attention spans of goldfish.
We were Red Rock meets blue sky of Arizona boldness,
depth of mountains the color of dried blood.

You told me you wanted to die.
Parked outside my parents’ house, asked what kept me living.
I told you my brother’s name but you only had sisters.

You said it would be easy.
One acquaintance away from getting a gun.
Knew someone who knew someone.
You were inches from releasing your feet from under the rope around your neck
and I was there, and I wasn’t.
You were scattered to red needles across the sheet of your chest
and you were only a decision away from a vertical slice
that opened the drawers of blood inside you until you were empty.

How could I tell you: you never wear sunglasses and I like that about you.
You look like a muppet and that alone still makes me smile.
You are curious yet patient.
You never make me feel ugly, gendered or crazy and that is huge.
This is friendship I keep in a drawer I will never unhinge
and spill out.

I felt you tremor from across the cup-holder
as a closed door on the left side of your chest rattled,
which must have been frightening
because the days were all empty rooms you waited in,
and the women were laughter that lived outside your walls,
and the men were impossible to be.

Jake, you look at me like I belong only in my skin,
and you ask questions, which is the biggest compliment anyone can receive.

So in the car we’re constantly in, outside our parents’ houses,
I swallow your keys to prove my commitment to finding a new way,
another road, a life you can live with.