We Are Such Beautiful Creatures: About Love

We Are Such Beautiful Creatures: about love

Love is the arbitrary combination of symbols representing sounds that is used to describe a chemical reaction inside of our brains in response to certain stimuli, which we call emotions. It causes pulses to quicken, often times nervous sweat and other effects when the object of affection is around, and many different responses like a "warm feeling inside" which is a result of hormones causing your body's core temperature to raise. Psychologically, we classify those sorts of responses with what we call the basic emotion of love. Love, in a scientific perspective, is simultaneously simple and complicated. There is the release of hormones and other chemicals within your brain that affect your functioning and reasoning capabilities and cause chemical reactions; these changes can be quantified and noted obviously. But, your brain is sometimes unpredictable and we have found no algorithm that can predict love. We have found genetic markers that humans search for in order to determine a good mate, but we are curious creatures and don't always follow our predetermined patterns. You cannot determine or predict or even try to guess at who will fall in love with whom and what love will make them do. Love, therefore, is simply love. We have no other way to describe it.

to those who are held back by an ill-fitting skin

my friend, he cried in my arms i held him close and let him weep until he could let it go and talk without fear of trembling.

he told me they had done nothing it was just words that had hurt him so left bruises and cuts and scars all over. they said that there are only girls-who-are-girls and boys-who-are-boys and there was no in between no either/or no and.

he cried for the wrongness of it, the idea that he was not supposed to be who he thought he was. the other day, he said, someone asked me what i was. i didn’t know what they meant i didn’t know i didn’t know

the question was not what are you but who are you and no one seemed to ask.

i told him they were right and he screamed, beating at my chest and crying i was just like them. i held him tight within the cage of my arms and did not let go, waited until he had worn himself out with the agony of perceived betrayal. then i whispered softly that i had a secret.

i told him that they were right there are no boy-who-are-girls and girls-who-are-boys there are girls, and boys, and either/or and and you are what you choose to be and who you think you are is what you am

you are not a girl-who-is-a-boy and i am not a boy-who-is-a-girl you are a boy and i am a girl let’s hold hands instead of the broken halves of our hearts.

i don’t mean to demean the struggle you have endured, the part of your being that comes from living for years in an ill fitting skin. that has and always will be you, it has made you and shaped you to be who you are.

but until we realise that people are people and you cannot change that no matter the gender or non gender you are a boy and i am a girl. when we can be recognised as boys and girls

then, maybe, if you want you can be a boy-who-used-to-be-a-girl and i will still call you John.

through my words he stopped crying and beating against my chest, rested his head on my shoulder and held on for dear life. his skin felt a little less constricting a little less ill-fitting, broken and burnt. with that i said my secret- the one that kept me here.

you are what you think you are and that, my dear, is beautiful.

waiting for the rain to come

you measure your pain in increments of nine, pour out happiness in millilitres etched into a glass cup. sadness comes in ten gallon buckets, orange, contrary to popular belief. not everything is blue like misery but it's enough to last the year.

Have you ever thought about how every day we are dying, slowly disintegrating into nothing after all we are but dust collected into atoms that combine to become us, a body of thousands but yet only one we are a universe unto ourselves, infinitely expanding and collapsing as our little lives made of stardust (we are such stuff that dreams are made of, wishes forgotten and remembered and love lost and won) become stars and like everything die they supernova into an explosion of colour that we can’t even see if it happens but we do not see or even notice did it really happen or was it just an illusion, sleight of the hand that holds so gently a universe of stars known as us and we die slowly, not from ourselves supernovae in a great explosion a grand last act but of a thousand little things that break us every day, our tiny atoms fading our stars growing dim until we are left as the gloaming, the almost black fragile as the smallest thing so delicate one touch and we disintegrate, slowly dying every day bleeding out our souls till we’re an empty husk after all we are but dust

cityskylinesofimaginaryplaces, part one of two, ‘Pulvus et Umbra Sumus’ (via wnq-writers)

whether it's something I was or someone I want to be who I am now, or who I pretend to be be brave. -'words of advice'

love her. love her. love her.

there was one time i stained the entire bathroom sink blue with ink.

my pen had broken. when I tried to pull off the cap the entire casing broke into pieces in my hands. i don’t know what compelled me to paint myself blue, and stain my hands, covering them. they were covering in aching, in longing and sorrow. blue ink.

it was hard to stop; at first it was just an accident, covering the end so it wouldn’t splash into the white tiled floor. then it was on purpose, tracing the lines of tiny bird-like bones veins as dark and blue as night itself. my hands were cold and so, my scars were purple that day. i do not wish to number them. there are so many, scars like stars and freckles dotting the edges of oblivion. i covered that too, held the ink in and of my hands shielded it from the oblivion as long as i could.

my bones were the blue of night, darkest lines like the edge of horizons my veins were deep like cuts, so beaten they were black and blue knuckles and scars and lines crossed my surface, my skin a never ending canvas better for ink than knives.

my entire hands were blue, smeared with desire and want and need. need of what, i could not say.

(my hands were tinted with the evidence of my wordless wonder; there was something freeing and wild, emptying and intoxicating about the loss of self that came with containing yourself in something that is not you)

the ink was my skin, was my soul until i poured it out, staining the sink blue as i washed away the words i could not say. the scars i could not erase. the longing i could not name or begin to feel.

the never ending ache of want and need for lack of a better word, the spread fingers of longing grasping after the edges of night dark like oblivion.

blue ink.