Today, today I felt as if I would break. In a gentle way. With the pain of some kind of realisation. Or theory. Or delusion, fitting to such strange situations. Perhaps not strange at all—same? The acidic grind of the same wheels turning the same cogs the same outcome, the same clock striking time to sleep.
I don’t think it’s up to thinking about what I should have dones, how I could’ve changed things. What you could of… it’s only blame. And regardless of the supposed weight lifted off of one, it never takes away the negation of the entire experience.
Why do we say we feel hollow when we can still feel? Sometimes it’s only an overload of emotion. Not a lack there of. I think it’s feeling paper thin. Part of, but apart, like tissue wrapping paper, translucent; like cellophane and just as gaudy. Made to be thrown away.
I think it was craft. I think it was a dress being crocheted, filling up with time, sleeves, neckline, bust, waist, hem… and then the unraveling, until all it was, was enough to make a tablecloth, fraying at the edges, until it wasn’t even enough to cover a table. Like the one in that suitcase my mother has. The one that my father’s mother was working on, before she died, before I was born.
It’s not you. You… You. You. You. You. You. Because it’s all the same. And I can’t contend with that. So it becomes just the same. The same. And it’s easier to banish it to forced forgetfulness. Just bobbing under the surface tension; brought to the boil.
And I won’t be able to trace a smile across a lie.
But maybe it’s more distressing that I can.
And just as well really, just when you think, again, ‘yes, so I suppose this is it, it’, when really it isn’t, it’s, ‘this is it, shit.’
I think I get that I’m not supposed to get, anything. Just another fruitless human expectation.
Oh yes, I could’ve mastered a lie, built it up to perfection, so exalted and glorious that even I could believe it. But then, would you want it? Would you want to believe the lie that I forced myself to believe?
Of course. In opposite words you told me as much.
I do think that I tried. I tried. I did. So much and for so long that I ended up destroying the last shreds of something of what it was to be me, that you left behind in your rampage. A thousand lonely nights in your arms.
But then, that isn’t fair.
But then, neither is spitting in my face and saying I love you.
There are some pathways that I thought I was free of. That I, with my own will, lost directions for. But you were willing to give me the rations and map needed to traverse the same dark roads again.
Is it self-interest? Self-inflicted? There were things that you did.
How can the same sentence hold, I love you and I hate you? So much, so fucking much, so much more, so much more than… Than what? Than what? There never really were those particulars …then what?
Perhaps it wasn’t that things changed. Perhaps I just finally woke up to it.
How can one say that? How can I say that?
How can I say any of this? I can’t say anything. That’s what you taught me. I got so used to being finally able to speak, even if it was only to myself. Not reverberating on the inside in some danse macabre waiting for a green light.
Of what a kiss should be. What ‘making love is’, what ‘fucking’ is. What it means to be embraced. What it means to feel entwined within another’s soul. What it means to feel whole. What it means to feel like a child again, perhaps. Safe in the dalliances of daytime. In sunshine, and warmth of a protector’s love.
But these are just what we’ve learnt to want to want. Told to believe it is our piece of pie, our ‘what to look forward to’ when we ‘grow up’.
A continuation of the softness of newborn life. Forever in an exchange of fingertips tracing along cheeks, dreaming eye gazes and lips upon soft lips.
Could I say it existed, perhaps, for a time? Can I say that with knowledge of existence? Can I say anything with certainty… with my unscrupulous cynicism?
A hopeless romantic under the grind and grit of daily fucking.
That’s what we do, every day. We fuck with ourselves whilst everyone else--the world--fucks us over.