"Forever wait inside the sea for me my dear, I hear you. You speak in every curling wave and sing in every violent breeze."

I just realised how much of a mess my notebook is. My notebooks always kind of represent the state of my life. Right now everything is a bit messy. I have so many feelings running around my head. Violence, passion, fear, joy, love, hate, fear, love, fear. I used to think that everything was perfectly in order before, that the feelings I was feeling were perfect in their low power. Because I had made this promise to myself that I would never try to find harmony in another person. Because when you find someone whose melody fits your lyrics then everything can collapse. But then with someone who doesn't really fit... Someone who is nearly off-tune... then your songs can be catchy and popular, three minutes fourty-five seconds of good time... But they never speak to you on a higher level. But we can settle down for half-good songs. 

Can we really?

For a time, half-good songs do the trick ; like half-good sex will help you sleep and half-good wine will help you stop thinking. And one day you wake up hearing the music of the cosmos again, the whole universe starts singing for you again. 

Everything is there, on a pretty guy's lips and your hear the songs in his breath and your words start rhyming again. From black hole eyes you find supernovas and that promise of half-good songs turn out to be a clever lie because you are done with half-lives. You want adventures, drunken tram trips, dances in the moonlight, skateboarding sessions at midnight. Because if you fall then you scratch your knees but you do it laughing because the planets sing in unison and your knees will heal while you soak in a glass full of orange juice or of happiness -as the two of them are the same and you stopped caring about finding the right word  because for once it's the feeling that is right.

And when you realised you stopped thinking about running away, about faking it, about death... then it's too late because the songs are thunderstorms : terrifying but incredible. You don't need sleep and you need the best of wines and the best of sex and that hand to hold all night. And the songs whisper that you must keep that secret of the universe just a bit longer while listening to Wildlife and imagining this hand on your leg or that hair spilled on one of those blue and white pillows.

That perfect mess we built.

The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit.