Holy Shit you guys this is like the reverse of the Brokeback Mountain-Crash upset
Brokeback Mountain, the gay cowboy movie, won ever Best Film award on the planet when it first acme out and it was considered a shoe-in for Best Picture until in one of the biggest upsets in Oscar history, it lost the award to more obscure movie, Crash, and pretty much everyone understood it was because voters were unwilling to give a gay movie the most prestigious entertainment award on the planet.
And now over a decade later the opposite happens, you have the nostalgic safe movie all poised to win, only to lose to Moonlight. Honestly this feels so good, it really does feel like a small sign of progress.
I don’t know how so much emotion can fit inside of such a tiny human.
Why does it feel so good to cry? Why do salt-stained eyes bring me comfort? I want to purge myself from feelings - I want to shove my fingers down my throat and pull from it strings of chewed up letters. Stomach-stained thoughts. Be filled with complacent emptiness for just a moment - the gasp of air, when it feels like happiness, until gravity remembers itself and the emptiness becomes stillness becomes face down on your bed, unmoving. This can’t be how I live every moment that I’m alone - I can’t be this unhappy every time I’m alone. What does being around others even mean? It means being The Performer. Reciting your lines, pause for laughter. Pretend like you’re listening. Don’t say what you really mean, how you really feel, it’s not what people do. Rip that pulsing heart off your sleeve. We are all alive, we are all feeling what’s the use in holding back. I’m exhausted. What does it mean to just exist? To just be Alice, laying in the daisy field. The sun can see her, but nothing else. The movement of petals. What does it mean to breathe easily? What does it mean to be happy? Where does the laughter escape to when you’re alone? I feel, often, always, like a wind-up doll, a performance piece. I’m out, I’m social, I speak, I dance, I leave out my hat. I come home, back to my shelf, I sit, I stare, I want to be wound up again - always by others, never of my own volition. I become nothing for myself. If a blue haired girl takes a bath, writes a dream, touches herself, packs a box, but no one’s around to see it, did it really happen? I weep and weep and it doesn’t matter. I’m screaming into the abyss, the abyss is silent in return. The abyss has given up on us, it seems. The abyss needed something to scream into as well, it seems. Alex in the morning, doe eyes, cheery Alex is all anyone knows and it seems unfair to real Alex. Magnificently unfair. When can I be content being myself. I’m so tired. My mouth doesn’t want to make the words anymore. We slur (soberly, drunkenly), we can’t form coherent sentences. Ink based thoughts are the only ones I ever complete. (It’s cheating, I have more time to think them up.) (I want to be this version of me, I don’t want to be spoken to the way I’m spoken to. I’m more than my body, than the tiny, helpless mess of a man of a mouse.)
Some things are forgotten once you’ve moved on, but this one’s different. It’s addictive. Just like what drugs do to my mood, I keep going back for more. It does more harm than good, but it feels so right.
ok but imagine amethyst casually throwing around self deprecating humor like “haha yeah I know I’m kind of a mess B)”
but peridot doesn’t pick up on the tone and she’s like NOO INCORRECT and reminds her how cool and funny she is and amethyst is like..I was just kidding but…thanks