The Côtes du Rhône is room temperature, the cigarettes have never tasted better, or worse. The honey dew melon is so aromatic, it’s almost too velvety and overpowering. Two steps to too ripe but still…sweet.
Confidence is a fickle friend. One moment, you are sauntering down the street, arm in arm, the sun on your face, the wind in your loose garments, moving your hair across your face. You look at people passing you and you see them. And they see you. And it’s beautiful.
The next moment, you’re walking alone. And instead of seeing people, you just observe them, without being able to understand them at all.
Yes. I am definitely softer. It’s nice to not be so rough and tough and covered in metal plates. But it’s difficult, too. Because ultimately, I consider my emotions my greatest weakness.
I’m rewatching American Horror Story – Hotel. I very much disliked it the first time around but I’m changing my mind.
I loved the character of Liz Taylor so very much. Denis O Hare is a beautiful actor. He was fantastic in True Blood and in every single episode of AHS but never as much as in Hotel. Oh Liz. I wish you were real so I could get to know you.
It’s been nearly a year since my uncle died. I miss him terrible. His initials adorn my body in the shape of a tattoo close to my heart and sometimes I feel him in it. I miss you, uncle. I never knew and maybe never will never know someone so alike me, someone I understood better. To see him decay in front of my very eyes was both devastating and beautiful. Devastatingly beautiful, maybe. It was life. Life in its purest form. You get sick, your body eats itself from the inside, you die.
Our last conversation I will never forget. I’d flown in last minute for the weekend to stay at his house with my aunt and my mother, his sister. We arrived, we hugged, we ate, we drank, we smoked, we talked, we cried, we laughed, it felt never ending. He was very weak, and frail, but alive. Sunday. I had joked that he’d have to stay alive until the following weekend when my real holiday started. He was reclined on his bed, overlooking the fields, and the sea, and I sat down next to him and said, ‘I just want to say one thing’ and he interrupted me going, ‘I know, I have to stay alive until next weekend’. And I said, ‘No. What I wanted to tell you is that you don’t have to wait for me’. And then I hugged him and kissed him and got up and walked out of the room and out of the house and into the world of the living and I never saw him again because he died that Tuesday morning. My aunt’s sister and her husband visited on the Monday. And then he went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Liver failure. Caused by the cancer that was everywhere. I miss you, uncle. You were a difficult man but I completely understood you. I wish I could see you again. Play records. Drink wine. Smoke cigarettes. Talk about important things. Laugh inappropriately.
I know it was his death that sent me over the edge. I want to cry very badly right now but the tears won’t come, not really. So, I’ll go to bed, instead. Maybe my dreams will help me see him again. You can’t rely on dreams, and they don’t mean anything anyway.
I’m starting to feel a little lost again.