Tearing
It’s hard to tear my fingers away long enough to write.
Tap, tap, tap.
What am I? What do I feel? What do I want. I reflect softly that I should write more, because when I don't, when I let it all build up inside of me like that, I can barely write, because I'm typing so fast that I have to rewind again and again to correct the wrongs.
My head hurts, my heart aches, and I don't understand what it is I feel, because how could I possibly understand what I feel? I just have to let it go, let it go, let it all go and let myself go because it is not I who writes these words as I stare at my keyboard in abject misery as my fingers strive to remember how to use this mysterious thing, one hand wanting to do that other's job, and I shake a little bit, wishing I could get the words out faster but I have no one to talk to and I wonder if he reads this and it seems absurd, so very, very absurd that we can be a year later and I still think on him night and day and all the little bits in between because I am nothing if I have nothing to be miserable about, because my misery is my joy, is my beauty, is my writing, and I am lost without it, indeed, I have been lost lately, and this is my mind, my mind is one unbroken, run on sentence in a field of broken glass which tears me to pieces if I so much as THINK.
Pause for a moment. Reflect.
Can't, can't reflect, because there is nothing to reflect on, because what I write is not reflection, it is simply a glance at what is within, it is not beautiful it is not terrible, and this is killing me because for FUCK's sake I want to write faster and my hands simply won't allow it, so perhaps I should write on paper, real paper which can feel the kiss of my forgotten, careless tears as I feel alone, so very very alone, and feel it so acutely if only because now, unlike then I am so much closer to actually not being alone. Close, so close, like steel turned into glass, and now I know what I am missing, because I see it, so clearly, and I can't break the glass because it'll tear me apart, kill me, kill me. I want it to, I want something to kill me, but this is just depression talking, and I want to be older while I stay young forever because I want these FEELINGS to fade, please, please fade, let me not feel this anymore because I can't think on him any longer, on what I'm missing, on what I've let get away from me, because I'm stupid, so very, very stupid, and he knew this and he pulled away, and I'm left dying in my own, destroyed head, and no the flood gates are opened, and I know not what I write, I know not what I think, simply that I can't stop now, now that it's open, and I wonder how I lasted so long without this, waiting, just waiting for it to all go away, and I want to talk to him, want to see him, want to know what it's like, want to know how it feels, and NOT him, the other him, the him I know not. Please, please, please, I beg to world to give me relief, and it's like trying to reach orgasm and failing each time, and I'm close, so close to that absolution which will let me sleep, but I can't rub fast enough, can't type fast enough and my brain won't let me rest, my soul doesn't give a damn, and my body is tense and my mind is a sponge being wrung out, and too filled, far too filled, the water is spilling everywhere, and I'm just a mystery, that weird girl that no one understands, the crazy one, that everyone thinks they get but no one cares, no one cares, because I'm just weird and self-pitying and obnoxious and anal and WHAT IS THIS? I don't know how to get it out swiftly enough, there's too much, too much, I can't do it all, I can't do it at all and why oh why does my heart kill me so, and I want to rhyme, and if I find the right words then perhaps I can finally sleep, and why don't I write more? If I did, perhaps it would be easier, for writing is my soul, it's my everything, and only other writers can understand why I die. I should talk about all the things that are bothering me, talk about my life, talk about my pain, it is, after all, the reason I got on here is the first place, and I can't figure out a way to make all this less painful, make myself NEED this less, because I need it, I need it so much, I need to let this chaos escape the confines of my dark, pointless mind. I need it, I need it like a crystal queen needs candy, I NEED it, I need it to hurt, I need to bleed, but this, this is the healthy method, the one I've been avoiding, and the reason why it doesn't seem like enough, why it can never be enough, it'll never be enough....
Am I jealous? Perhaps a little. But not for a good reason. And it's not so much jealousy, it's just weirdness over the finality, the idea that I can't ever call him again because she's there. It wasn't like we had anything special, but it does feel weird.
I long for a partner, and I don't know why. My thoughts are more coherent now, more cohesive, good. And somehow this is more of a relief than what came before. I know this, though: I do HAVE to write. I can't live without it. I die without it.
Love is a bit more elusive, though. And thanks to my encounter with Jonathan, I have no desire to sleep with anyone until I actually am going to form a relationship with them. And the lack of sex is taking its toll. I have a high libido, and not having sex is extremely difficult for me. What the fuck am I supposed to do without sex? Love, love I can wait for, albeit a bit impatiently. But sex is something that I don't know how to function without. It's killing me. And I'm not getting ANYTHING. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Masturbation can only get me so far.
I feel relieved. My head hurts. I need more sex, good god, I need more sex. That is to say, I need some sex. Any sex. Jesus.
Enough for now. The twitching's faded slightly.
Tap, tap, tap.
What am I? What do I feel? What do I want. I reflect softly that I should write more, because when I don't, when I let it all build up inside of me like that, I can barely write, because I'm typing so fast that I have to rewind again and again to correct the wrongs.
My head hurts, my heart aches, and I don't understand what it is I feel, because how could I possibly understand what I feel? I just have to let it go, let it go, let it all go and let myself go because it is not I who writes these words as I stare at my keyboard in abject misery as my fingers strive to remember how to use this mysterious thing, one hand wanting to do that other's job, and I shake a little bit, wishing I could get the words out faster but I have no one to talk to and I wonder if he reads this and it seems absurd, so very, very absurd that we can be a year later and I still think on him night and day and all the little bits in between because I am nothing if I have nothing to be miserable about, because my misery is my joy, is my beauty, is my writing, and I am lost without it, indeed, I have been lost lately, and this is my mind, my mind is one unbroken, run on sentence in a field of broken glass which tears me to pieces if I so much as THINK.
Pause for a moment. Reflect.
Can't, can't reflect, because there is nothing to reflect on, because what I write is not reflection, it is simply a glance at what is within, it is not beautiful it is not terrible, and this is killing me because for FUCK's sake I want to write faster and my hands simply won't allow it, so perhaps I should write on paper, real paper which can feel the kiss of my forgotten, careless tears as I feel alone, so very very alone, and feel it so acutely if only because now, unlike then I am so much closer to actually not being alone. Close, so close, like steel turned into glass, and now I know what I am missing, because I see it, so clearly, and I can't break the glass because it'll tear me apart, kill me, kill me. I want it to, I want something to kill me, but this is just depression talking, and I want to be older while I stay young forever because I want these FEELINGS to fade, please, please fade, let me not feel this anymore because I can't think on him any longer, on what I'm missing, on what I've let get away from me, because I'm stupid, so very, very stupid, and he knew this and he pulled away, and I'm left dying in my own, destroyed head, and no the flood gates are opened, and I know not what I write, I know not what I think, simply that I can't stop now, now that it's open, and I wonder how I lasted so long without this, waiting, just waiting for it to all go away, and I want to talk to him, want to see him, want to know what it's like, want to know how it feels, and NOT him, the other him, the him I know not. Please, please, please, I beg to world to give me relief, and it's like trying to reach orgasm and failing each time, and I'm close, so close to that absolution which will let me sleep, but I can't rub fast enough, can't type fast enough and my brain won't let me rest, my soul doesn't give a damn, and my body is tense and my mind is a sponge being wrung out, and too filled, far too filled, the water is spilling everywhere, and I'm just a mystery, that weird girl that no one understands, the crazy one, that everyone thinks they get but no one cares, no one cares, because I'm just weird and self-pitying and obnoxious and anal and WHAT IS THIS? I don't know how to get it out swiftly enough, there's too much, too much, I can't do it all, I can't do it at all and why oh why does my heart kill me so, and I want to rhyme, and if I find the right words then perhaps I can finally sleep, and why don't I write more? If I did, perhaps it would be easier, for writing is my soul, it's my everything, and only other writers can understand why I die. I should talk about all the things that are bothering me, talk about my life, talk about my pain, it is, after all, the reason I got on here is the first place, and I can't figure out a way to make all this less painful, make myself NEED this less, because I need it, I need it so much, I need to let this chaos escape the confines of my dark, pointless mind. I need it, I need it like a crystal queen needs candy, I NEED it, I need it to hurt, I need to bleed, but this, this is the healthy method, the one I've been avoiding, and the reason why it doesn't seem like enough, why it can never be enough, it'll never be enough....
Am I jealous? Perhaps a little. But not for a good reason. And it's not so much jealousy, it's just weirdness over the finality, the idea that I can't ever call him again because she's there. It wasn't like we had anything special, but it does feel weird.
I long for a partner, and I don't know why. My thoughts are more coherent now, more cohesive, good. And somehow this is more of a relief than what came before. I know this, though: I do HAVE to write. I can't live without it. I die without it.
Love is a bit more elusive, though. And thanks to my encounter with Jonathan, I have no desire to sleep with anyone until I actually am going to form a relationship with them. And the lack of sex is taking its toll. I have a high libido, and not having sex is extremely difficult for me. What the fuck am I supposed to do without sex? Love, love I can wait for, albeit a bit impatiently. But sex is something that I don't know how to function without. It's killing me. And I'm not getting ANYTHING. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Masturbation can only get me so far.
I feel relieved. My head hurts. I need more sex, good god, I need more sex. That is to say, I need some sex. Any sex. Jesus.
Enough for now. The twitching's faded slightly.