ça ira

Jpromettrai jamais d'être toujours là pour toi
Ni même toujours quand il faut
Jpromettrai juste d'être là, parfois.

Et on est du genre à accepter ça,
se dire que c'est l'Univers qu'a voulu ça
et que parfois, bah ça ira.

mouldy lemons

There are a few months of my high school years that I will never forget. Hyper-romanticise and extrapolate on yes, but forget, no.

I was under the control of this guy, just a year above me. Very weird. Weird as in trench-coat and briefcase. At highschool. 

This was the dawn of facebook messenger. We would chat for hours all night, school nights and never talk in the day. Not a look, not from him anyway. 

He was my source of extra-curriculum knowledge. Those juicy, sciency, philosophical facts that are facts in my head only. I have no doubt that he is a genius. A master of lies.

An older guy. An old man. A teacher. A mental abuser. 

Cuz it fucks with your head to have someone so, so present on fb, but unapprochable even though you're in the same group of friends. 

To have someone write your astrology future, a full, 3 pages. And make you start believing in it. These things hack away at your brain, one emotion and email attachement at a time. 

He also taught me the internet, the dark world of 4chan. Full of red light district channels and
trenchcoat trolls. 

That's what he was, an immature, mysoginistic, lustful and controling troll. 

And I fell for it. I wanted our online communiom to ammount to a physical one too. 

I really nearly followed him outside the school gates once. Really nearly followed him to his racist, rightwinged father's home. 

The only thing that saved me from him was myself and my trust in my instincts. Because he smelft of mouldy lemons to me. His weird looks had grown on me but his body smell, never. 

I know many of my since relationships have been similar. Intense and imbalanced intellectual relationships following onto some cocktail of love and sex. Enough to knock anyone out. 

I blame my innocence and his acertiveness for my kinks today. My submissive searches are fueled by the elation I found under his mindfucking mentorship.

Drug of choice.

Drug of choice.
That's nonsense.
You don't choose a drug. It summons you and you pray.
My god is procreation, but the end goal is elation.