so remember when i was so lost and depressed and on so many drugs that i made you my imaginary boyfriend?
everything i had longed for or was experiencing in those days, i put your face on it.
this romantic concept of escape. sexual and artistic freedom. the drugs and the alcohol. shoplifting. selfishness. ego. the idea that i could create my own morality.
it was glorified self-destructive behavior and you were the face of it for me.
remember i even used to talk to you. in my head. when i think of it now, it was almost like prayer. me, desperately reaching out to this concept or idea of this person that's not even there, somehow wanting to be embraced by it.
i found the same copy of the book, with all your poems in it, i used to read religiously back then, that someone had eventually stolen from me. i have been reading it off and on for the past couple of days and all of this started coming back to the forefront of my head. at first i didn't think i could relate to you anymore. that i was over you arthur.
then i got to a season in hell and your letter to paul and i felt you seep in a little again. i felt your words but i heard then in a different way and i felt a little inspired. you're a little rambly and full of yourself at times mr. rimbaud, but perhaps i can use you again.
want to give this another go?
