Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "16"
Cashmere Cat
I have so many things to do but not one of them is you. I don't want a reckoning of any sort, not interested, I want an awakening.
As you can see, Fourth Wall doesn't mean much to me, I don't care about it anymore. I want to break down all the walls there are, especially the Wall of Jericho.
Everyone wants to leave an impression on me. I am only looking to impress you and impress upon you the importance of you.
My days do not even belong to me
but my nights,
my nights are only for you.
As you can see, Fourth Wall doesn't mean much to me, I don't care about it anymore. I want to break down all the walls there are, especially the Wall of Jericho.
Everyone wants to leave an impression on me. I am only looking to impress you and impress upon you the importance of you.
My days do not even belong to me
but my nights,
my nights are only for you.
jean seberg
Stranded in middle of her nowhere. I flipped a gold coin in the coldless darkless night; my head whipping toward its arch, following its fallow ascent, I watched as the earth and the air scrambled for it, tearing through each other to seize what couldn’t be theirs.
As the nameless coin twisted somewhere between its fall and its destiny, its lemony glow garbing me in my nakedness, its glint holding me still within my night
I was reminded of her more Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde nature fake as all the other elementals.
There were two sides to Hēra
Not just the two halves of herself she usually struggled with, nor just the dual mechanism of her manic depression
One half of her reflection was an unbent world worn yet not worn out singularity, forever entangled in the difference between right and wrong, fiercely intelligent despite her dumbfuckness, a lone stained girl who was very familiar, intimate, intoxicated with her own morality.
And then there was the other side of her other side
The other part of her equation; the rest of her design. She was cruel in her childlike single-mindedness, for her hunger was infinite. Her untamed feeding, her undiluted ardor made her vulnerable
And it was this side that killed me.
Now sinking together in the aftermath of her glow
Pining her arms to her sides holding her tightly within my own as she leans back into me, Hēra teetering sideways within the secured fetters, she kills everything inside of her, as her only world slowly died until nothing is ever going to be alright again, everything is not alright and that’s how it’s supposed to be, that’s the constant, rest is anomaly.
Keeper of her books stealing my own imagery, I didn’t have the heart to tell her she wasn’t sacred anymore for she wasn’t scared anymore.
In my disquieted mind, I find myself standing in the purple field of her bruised flowers, waiting patiently, god within a god, dust within her dust, head bent down, cigarette’ end flaring up like a death of a small sun, overcoat flapping in the winds stirred up by the ravens’ wings, brought on by their breaths, as all the belated storms of her lies closes in on me.
Is this the end, or is it just her standing still?
As the nameless coin twisted somewhere between its fall and its destiny, its lemony glow garbing me in my nakedness, its glint holding me still within my night
I was reminded of her more Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde nature fake as all the other elementals.
There were two sides to Hēra
Not just the two halves of herself she usually struggled with, nor just the dual mechanism of her manic depression
One half of her reflection was an unbent world worn yet not worn out singularity, forever entangled in the difference between right and wrong, fiercely intelligent despite her dumbfuckness, a lone stained girl who was very familiar, intimate, intoxicated with her own morality.
And then there was the other side of her other side
The other part of her equation; the rest of her design. She was cruel in her childlike single-mindedness, for her hunger was infinite. Her untamed feeding, her undiluted ardor made her vulnerable
And it was this side that killed me.
Now sinking together in the aftermath of her glow
Pining her arms to her sides holding her tightly within my own as she leans back into me, Hēra teetering sideways within the secured fetters, she kills everything inside of her, as her only world slowly died until nothing is ever going to be alright again, everything is not alright and that’s how it’s supposed to be, that’s the constant, rest is anomaly.
Keeper of her books stealing my own imagery, I didn’t have the heart to tell her she wasn’t sacred anymore for she wasn’t scared anymore.
In my disquieted mind, I find myself standing in the purple field of her bruised flowers, waiting patiently, god within a god, dust within her dust, head bent down, cigarette’ end flaring up like a death of a small sun, overcoat flapping in the winds stirred up by the ravens’ wings, brought on by their breaths, as all the belated storms of her lies closes in on me.
Is this the end, or is it just her standing still?
Ana de Armas
It's better to let go than to recreate. It's always so much better to create something new, especially when you are not in anywhere new, place or mental state.
When it's all the same, you don't have to be. And yeah, I know. I look the same as I did when she told me she thought she loved me. I am still the same, still look the same.
Looking at her now, with Sigur Rós warning me in the background, is making me so nostalgic for her.
As she is now, she's reminding me of the girl she used to be; never real but always magical.
So full of things that dissolved in the air. Though I'll say this though. The red of her mouth looks so unfamiliar now, seems unknown, feels empty and moves nothing in me.
Time has distorted and squeezed her mouth into something unbearable, I hardly recognize it. But her breath is still familiar, still feels like her. Monstrous, ruining women, weakening men, and making all the clowns happy.
Her torn lips no longer telling the story of the rain, but the memory of the fish lingers on.
She is still moving on, not dour, leaving now. Heading full tilt in just one direction. Where could that be. A place where she dreams about her reflection, but she dreamt that too much.
She's burned out now, her burnt fingers aching something else in her.
Where else is she going to meet me other than the Graveyard of the Trees.
It's there I'll give her what remains of tonight.
In exchange of the spiral, spindly and liquid, I will give her the night.
When it's all the same, you don't have to be. And yeah, I know. I look the same as I did when she told me she thought she loved me. I am still the same, still look the same.
Looking at her now, with Sigur Rós warning me in the background, is making me so nostalgic for her.
As she is now, she's reminding me of the girl she used to be; never real but always magical.
So full of things that dissolved in the air. Though I'll say this though. The red of her mouth looks so unfamiliar now, seems unknown, feels empty and moves nothing in me.
Time has distorted and squeezed her mouth into something unbearable, I hardly recognize it. But her breath is still familiar, still feels like her. Monstrous, ruining women, weakening men, and making all the clowns happy.
Her torn lips no longer telling the story of the rain, but the memory of the fish lingers on.
She is still moving on, not dour, leaving now. Heading full tilt in just one direction. Where could that be. A place where she dreams about her reflection, but she dreamt that too much.
She's burned out now, her burnt fingers aching something else in her.
Where else is she going to meet me other than the Graveyard of the Trees.
It's there I'll give her what remains of tonight.
In exchange of the spiral, spindly and liquid, I will give her the night.
