walk the line*

Rooftops and angels.

The first 36 hours were to be expected. This is how travel works. Time shifts but I do not. Airports as limbo, zones of arbitrary absolutes. I’ll walk, breathe, wait in line, purchase two books for a friend’s birthday, check the local news in a language I don’t understand, wonder about food, drink coffee, listen to the same song on repeat, wrap myself in a sweatshirt I’ve dug out of a backpack, take a piss, miss smoking. I’ll wait until a certain set of depersonalized numbers match the ones on my ticket and queue and board and sit and think and read and dissociate.

In the new place, I’m interested in the way the light folds into trees, slides off buildings, melts on my face through the taxi window. The driver tells me the time, military always, and I accept it as truth. I’ll bend this way, think about food and happy hours and the music I play to mark sunset or when the lights from the castles illuminate the square and foreign voices angle off buildings older than my memories of other’s memories.

The drugs didn’t work. They never do. I watch the sun come up and light change as the needle scratches on pick-up. The album starts over.

The next few nights I’ll act as if I’m not lost. I’ll wash my face and brush my teeth. Get naked, alone, in unfamiliar sheets. I’ll lose three or four hours, but the rest I’ll remember as ceiling, window, tree, shadow.

On the morning of Day 7, I’ll wake up screaming. Shaking. Covered in slick sweat. I will remember dying and a woman with long hair asking me questions I can’t answer. I’ll remember someone from home telling me about a date they went on, a phone call, sending a contract. Did I live each one? Did my body bleed, did I laugh, did we share a secret, was I alive for you?

Another two planes, three cities, and I’m trying to untangle time. 

These 48 hours are unexpected. I can’t tell what are dreams and what is otherwise, and as the shower wall melts when I lean into it, I think about being on the 11th floor and what my body will look like, naked and wet, falling among the morning haze of this city. Will they find me pristine and angelic and curled and sleeping, finally? 

I can’t tell the time anymore, but the bliss of every failure - lived or imagined - is on equal footing. I am a carousel, I think, each animal a trope, or is it the canned music, heavy on xylophone, that is my signature? It doesn’t matter, I guess. I am metal lion, teeth bared, and I am sleek zebra, heavy lids, and I am the sweet, sickly smell of cotton candy and the ticket girl’s perfume. I am this entire swirling entity, nomenclature and form, a world rotating again and again. The needle scratches and picks itself up and the album replays.

And then I am home, and my mind is not the same, it never is. Loved ones try to untangle the truths from the half truths, and I nod with wide, glassy eyes. Why do they never tell you that our realities are not fixed, they never were?

We are equally in this world and the one we project, and I know now, maybe always did, that the thin, dirty film that sits between the two is readily broken.

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine
I keep my eyes wide open all the time

Excerpt from I Walk the Line.  Read here.


“What was that?” Louis hissed.  He was oddly turned on.  And a little annoyed.  He could fight his own battles.  Couldn’t he?

Harry just stared ahead, pulling Louis down the hall with him. Louis yanked himself free, jerking the two of them to a stop.  Harry turned sharply and stared over Louis’ head for a moment before looking him in the eye.  The spark of anger was there, but the way Harry was hulking over Louis, possession and entitlement thrumming through his body and willing Louis to submit, was terrifying.  It was…it was like Harry on crack.  Super Harry.  Harry always had an air of command about him — but it was more like he was comfortable in his own skin, and knew he was smart and competent.  But this was different.  This was like, a man on fire.  A man looking for a fight.

 Over Louis.

 Louis wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

 “I didn’t like the way he was touching you.”

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anonymous asked:

So you never get dizzy?!? Are you naturally small boned?

I really don’t get dizzy! Do you know those tea cup rides at amusement parks? I have had ride operators stop them because I was spinning them too fast and they either thought I was going to break the ride or puke. And I walked in a straight line after getting off. I even really really like anything that spins on a playground, around here we have these little “cups” you can sit in and spin and I’ll just sit there and spin like mad and then tilt my head to the side to make it worse. And I still barely get dizzy.

I was a strange child. Lol hell, I’m a strange adult.

So long story short, I love getting dizzy but I have yet to really get dizzy from my ed but I naturally have a hard time getting dizzy. And I still feel like I eat a lot, plus I try to eat stuff with a lot of protein to help.

my favourite game

I don’t have much of a head for remembering Arsenal games.

Oh, of course there are ones that stick in my memory: the big scores, the shocking scores, the vital matches that we scraped by on. For some reason I can also remember Germany’s international fixtures clear as a bell. But for Arsenal? Lots of the details have washed right over me over time. Keeping this in mind, maybe it’s not so surprising that my favourite game is one that I don’t even remember the opponents of.

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