Sunday/3/August/2014
12:18, Witching Hour.
To the poet from 1950s,
Bat for lashes, mother fucker. I wish I could chug a bottle of vintage red in front of you
And fucking pour it out in fucked up sentences and horrible manner.
But that's not me. I am bad at romanticising bruises and homelessness. The only thing that I'm good at is mourning them to the sound of death metal and imagination of having you yelling at me in front of my desk. (Complete with the cigarette and potty mouth).
Dear poet with various names and aliases, I too have other identities. I like to hide my birth certificate because nobody needs to fucking know that I was small and delicate. The only delicate thing in my current self is of course my brutal honesty. Honestly.
You told me in your notes that it is okay for people like us to dream of walking in Paris with curled up cat in our windowsills. I dream of being on a motorcycle that is heading to the peak of Himalaya, alone. Because who needs friends in the middle of the magnificent beauty of the nature? Not me.
Last night, I told my father to let me go. At least when I'm done making him happy with a degree. I told him to suck it up if I don't end up wearing suits and Louboutins and walking to a prestigious skyscraper to be a slave of the system.
Suck it up if I ended up like you, chain smoking in the corner of a cafe with dirty paws, bundled notes and photographs. Riding alone to the next place worth to be called as home.
Suck it up if the one thing that I love the most is being hated and isolated.
Isolation is key.
And freedom is me.
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