Write it down so you won’t forget the times you are living in. Pick up a pen and bleed your life onto a blank page as if you have a story to tell and must tell it now before it fades. Because it will fade. It will all be black and white and dissolved into the air like tissue paper candy left to melt in the bright afternoon light, turn to liquid lemon vapors on the indifferent wind.
He bathes and watches me get undressed, tells me I’m the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. I pull a brush through my hair and wonder if even a small portion of that could possibly be true, and if it is is it worth anything. I sing about sex and drugs, lipstick and video games. Later on we laugh at the idea of an embarrassing death and dance across the kitchen floor in bare feet as though we were young. We fill each other’s wine until the bottles and our thirsty pink tongues run dry.
The trouble comes when you try to write a story which is not yours to tell. You cannot write yourself a new life, you have to lift your two trembling hands and build it from the ground up in real time using real fear, true hunger, honest tears. It is hard. It is messy. It is very, very scary but a little less so if you have someone to twirl you like a child in the dead of night.
Remember that you only live once. Remember the map of the way around the sun in the hopes you just keep spinning around and around and the good times never fall through your fingers just to slip away through the cracks.