life philosophy: never buy anything full price
life philosophy: never buy anything full price
Have you ever had that moment? When you sort of realize that you’re actually okay with dying.. only you don’t want to, for all the people who love you. It’s like, I don’t mind dying today, that’s okay. But don’t take me away from them. Please God, don’t take me away from them. I think I’m lucky. I’m so lucky to have that. I’m so, so, so lucky.
I want to study the quantum physics of your hips. Because the switch and twist with every step gives new life to the pulse in my wrists. I want to study the whispers on your lips, memorize every kiss that I’ve missed in the twenty years on this earth that I’ve spent in your search. And there’s no diction that could quantify the friction of our skin. The nearness and the fearless nature of this bliss that we’re in. You make my head spin, flashing cheesy grins, shouting “she’s a ten.” But really, you’ve tipped the scale. And in all honesty, every other woman in my eyes seems to always grow pale. You set my lungs on fire, and then you extinguish the flames. And even with the ebb and the flow of time, you and I remain the same.
Tell me a story involving the phases of the moon and how certain heart feelings are attached to them— how things fade and glow and grow and wane. Tell me a story like that. Fictional, or no. It’s going to be good, coming from you.
Thank you for introducing me to Gregory. His music is just gorgeous.
Dude, whaaaaat.You are the first to say any of those things and you are such a sweetheart. Thank you. I just hope I don’t ever lame you out or anything. Cause I can get pretty lame. But hey, welcome to the lame. You are always… welcome to the lame.
5:40 pm, Thursday 7th Feb
9:40 am, Friday 8th Feb
Expo/Millenium Line to Waterfront
There’s this girl on the skytrain. She’s my age maybe, nineteen. She runs to this man at the end of the carriage like she knows him, she grabs him, shakes him, realizes she doesn’t know him. The man is appalled; to her it’s a joke – the most hilarious fucking thing in the world. She laughs it off, she is hysterical, she catches my eye and I smile a little with her because it is funny. She is still hysterical as she holds my glance and that’s when I realize she wasn’t at all… there. She is stoned out of her fucking left-brain.
She doesn’t seem mentally problematic, no, not at all – she dresses well and looks nothing like most homeless kids on every block of Granville Street. She’s high. She finds a seat and she is still laughing. She talks out loud to herself but I don’t hear her because I have Metric in my ears. She gets louder, and curious, I pause Black Sheep. She laughs and laughs. She’s so high. But her laugh—it is a tinkering melody, and the light of happiness bends through the sound of her laugh, bounces off of it and spreads out into a thousand different rays of saccharine joy. What is it about her intoxicated mind that makes her believe that life is just so simple??? I need to know.
She gets up, twirls, I mean literally twirls, pirouette ankles and all, towards the windows. She looks the aubergine sunset in the eye and she is singing. She is singing and God, her voice is so beautiful, so, so, so beautiful. And she is singing about summer and she is longing for it and she traces the vermillion rays on the panes with her dark fingers and she sounds so lovely. It is the echo of a gospel choir reverberating off a cathedral’s walls, it is the lullaby of a songbird in a lonely valley. She is so serene, she is so drugged.
She is back in her seat and the train stops. A man boards, she sees him, she rises, “Sit, man,” but he isn’t old or decrepit, he doesn’t need a seat. He mutters thanks and as he walks over, she hugs him. She fucking hugs him. She swoops right from under him, encases his rib cage in a little hula-hoop hug, and she embraces him. He looks down at this strange young woman encircling his chest, he shrugs her off, he is probably thrown off but I am amazed. A foreign hug between foreign bodies, it’s poetic and I like it. To her it’s just a friendly show of affection, to him it’s so weird, to me it’s fucking bizarre, and it’s beautifully bizarre. He sits, she stands, she laughs.
The masses avert their eyes because they are embarrassed for her, they are uncomfortable with her. She is weird, she is odd, she is a fool. I know because I think these things too. I turn my music back on because I think I’ve seen enough and I’ve been touched enough. But not before I hear her slip a sliver of a joke to someone behind me, the gentleman chuckles, and I catch her say, “Hey man, if I’ve made you laugh, then my job for the day is done.” It’s so simple. She’s so simple. How is everything so simple and how does she, in her inebriated condition, her poisoned nerves, make everything sound so okay? That life is not as complicated as we make it seem and how is she so happy about the littlest damn things? How is it that she is so content, so satisfied with hugging a complete stranger, so satisfied with making another creature laugh? How?
There is garbage on the train floor and she accidentally kicks the lid off a Starbucks venti or whatever you fucking call it. She sees it, she sees the rest of the trash (it is mostly coffeeshop debris), and she collects the waste in her hands. The train slows to another halt, the doors electric-slide open and she walks out, taking it on herself to dispose of somebody else’s irresponsibility. I think she is coming back. She doesn’t. The doors close and she never steps back in. The last I see of her, she is just trying to make the train less of an eyesore; she is trying to make it a better place in her infinitesimal way. Maybe I’m making something out of nothing, but she has reduced all the clockwork intricacies I see everywhere, the stress etched onto the canyons of wrinkles on the skin of everyone I see on the train, she reduces it to fucking ashes and she makes it so simple.
I cannot forget her. Stoned beyond all reason, but she struck me. She struck me so hard because, high as she was, she was the most herself, the person who was truest to her own person on the train that night. I felt everyone wrapped up in their insecurities, their duties, their roles, their fucking social statuses, their not-making-a-tool-out-of-themselves-everyone-is-judging-me selves, but dear God, no one, no one was happier than that woman ever was. No one. Yeah, she was probably on drugs, she was probably up to no good but hell, she was happy and life was simple and she was hakuna matata on a fucking stick.
She made life seem so easy, so effortless the way she laughed at the tiniest deals, the way her face simply lights up like that. It was just hilarious to think that to be so damn carefree, to be so serene, you’d need to have something, anything in your system. Why can’t we be this way the way we are? Why is it so difficult to be her without the drugs? Why have we made things so complicated for ourselves that we can’t even laugh a little at ourselves, croon a little at the sunset ourselves, hug a stranger ourselves without the caressing kiss of a little toxin in our bodies? Why can’t we do what we feel, why can’t we show how we feel, why are we so caged by the fear of what people will think of us? And on the flip side, why do we think about other people anyway? Why do we care what people do with themselves that makes them happy but hurts no one and only our little minds and the sake of our public comfort? Why are we ourselves so judgmental, so precariously hypocritical at most? Couldn’t we just go about feeling happy that someone else is feeling happy? Couldn’t just plastering a smile on someone, anyone’s face, make our entire day and it’s all good? Couldn’t things be just that easy? Couldn’t it?
Everyone on that train was so boring and quiet and jaded and lame and I know, I can swear, I can absolutely swear that on the inside, no one on that train truly is that way. Each individual onboard that car was a pulsing wave of electromagnetic beauty, every individual was tainted inside with colour and life, each person had fiery passions that burned like acid, and had people they loved and who loved them with an even more fiery passion that burned harder than acid. I bet everyone’s gorgeous on the inside, just like she was. I bet everyone everywhere on the face of this rock is just as beautiful as she was. I bet a hundred breaths everyone is just as bright golden underneath all that pile of shit life never ceases to heap on them. I know, because I am one of them too.
Things could be better. Things can be better. And when they look like they never will, I can always think of her. I’ll remember how simple she made things seem that Thursday night. She’ll remind me. She’ll remind us all.
the thing about the ultimate cosmic meaninglessness of man is that you can either wallow in your insignificance and the attendant pain that brings in a culture so obsessed with fame and being important,
or you can fall in love with literally everything and everyone in a dozen small ways because everything still exists despite the statistical unlikelihood of it all and that’s a goddamn miracle