all the glamour and the horror and the fuckin’ melodrama

These days, I cannot seem to keep track of time. There are encounters that I’ve willed to happen but cannot bring myself to see to; other engagements that I’ve never intended for, that inadvertently occur for one contingent reason or another. Then there are the appointments that one must keep, regardless of how early or how late in the day they may be, or how lethargic you are. Those are most tedious. 

At the same time, I can hardly keep track of who’s visiting and who I’m meant to entertain either. Cousins, friends, friends of friends, names absentmindedly scrawled under dates in a moleskine planner. Foreign faces blur into each other till I address them all the same — in that dazed, placid manner. Just smile and wave, darling, smile and wave. Perhaps it is not my confusion, but simply the heat that’s stirred up this fog in my brain. Regardless, half my summer days have been wasted away in a trance-like stupor.

Those days were, admittedly, glitzy, and the glitz was fun while it lasted. For how could I not enjoy the party dresses, the alcohol, and the part where we got to rub shoulders with the rich and famous?

But when one undresses at the end of the night, feet-battered and utterly sick, it is only the lulling ache of emptiness that one is left with.

“And the terror, and the horror, and the wonder why we bother.” 

I wish I knew what to do when we’re sober, to poorly paraphrase another of Lorde’s lyrics, but the truth is that I don’t. Boredom drives me to extremes. None of my writing or paintings would ever get done otherwise. And yet when all the words and pictures have been wrung out of me, what is one to do but to turn to excesses for that same sensation of life.

“Oh how fast the evening passes, cleaning up the champagne glasses.” 

 

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