Brian Jones painted a gravestone in a swimming pool on his wall. The people who bought his house after he died (in a swimming pool; suicide, murder or accidental death from drug overdose) had it painted over.
This is all I have to say. I have been trying to make something poetic out of it for the last two weeks. Trying to weave it into the tree blasted by lightning that I saw in my dream. I wasted a week making love to a friend. I have a half-read book on my shelf. These aren't things that reminds someone of death, necessarily, but everything could be a metaphor for something else if you try hard enough.
I have run out of poetry. I have been reading my friend's bad poetry all of last week, lying to him about it being good because I am trying to fuck. And now I sound like a character in a Sally Rooney novel, and not in a good way. I don't like Sally Rooney. There is very little I like these days, even being in love doesn't bring back the sugar on my tongue.
I am not suicidal. I am not going to kill myself because it's too much work, and it is always easier to get a cup of coffee. But I wouldn't really mind if a bus hit me on the road, or if the earth exploded. The earth is not going to explode, I know it now. It's going to be a slow and sad death. I did not mean for this to be a metaphor, but everything could be a metaphor for something else, even when you don't try hard enough.
I wish I could die like Brian Jones. Paint a gravestone in a swimming pool. Have it painted over by someone else. I wish death was that insignificant. I was the forgetting was that unnecessary.
