on the backstairs of the apocalypse

“They dropped acid and saw the same full purple waves peeling back like the petals of a fresh flower. They took mushrooms in the mountains, washing them down with milk, and thought their brains had melted together, burned under the white mushroom moon. The has made them giddy–he performed for her, doing an uncanny Edith Piaf that made her scream; then they ate chocolate and kissed for hours. They hated speed, which made their nerves ache.

– Francesca Lia Block

It’s 5am and there’s white noise everywhere, silence that doesn’t quite tiptoe around empty. It’s difficult to slow down like this, to let time elapse long enough to piece together a coherent thought, to realize where and who I am. There is no particular train of thought, only jumbled indescribable thoughts and fears, feelings I’m incapable of properly articulating. Impossible for me to animate, to incarnate with tongue and teeth. It’s always only been thought. I think of how I’m an infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void. How I have galaxies hidden between my bones and only now have I become aware of them, I’ve woken up with the knowledge that the years have gone and there’s a comfort in that. I don’t recognize the person I’ve become, but I know I love her. I have questions that no one can answer, but my happiness has consisted lately of the acknowledging that this all feels like some great, strange dream.

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