a letter to the most loved. HA!
Nothing makes sense. I'm incapable of sewing even the most primitive of words together into comprehensible and tangible thought for you. But for the first time, today I could look into your eyes and feel nothing; there was no yearning, no desire, even kissing you felt estranged. And all you had to say was I didn't smell like me; the scent on my hands smelled unique on each hand. Either I am two different people, I use lotion only on one hand, or I was holding the hand of someone else. He asked if I wanted to stay, I said I do not know. He suggested I leave and that I give him time; he said I am not good for him and he is not good for me. He didn't have to tell me that-- I was done with him, but yet, I am still holding on trying to make it work.
The older I get the more apparent it is to me that sadness can no longer be glorified as some testing, self-cleansing, insular experience that (in light of the fog of misery or the undulating choke of desolation) absolves me of any responsibility to proactively fix myself. The reality is, against all inclination I must call on the reserves of energy I have to put on a socially desirable front of calm neutrality and measured concentration, attending to commitments, fulfilling scheduled appointments, conducting everyday tasks of survival, progression and order. There are so many routes toward independence and self-sufficiency that I'm taking that come with the dispiriting prospect of enduring another year of aloneness, mind-numbing routine, thwarted new beginnings and only partly clean slates. Everywhere I go I keep recreating the same identity, carrying with me the same timidity and shame and inhibition, the unhealed scars from repeated betrayals, flimsy declarations that disintegrated with the slightest tension, sparing hearts like revolving doors or flowers that bloom every few years. I've come to accept the nature of your impenetrability as a trick of the mind, a quality I've exaggerated or dwelled on because of my fixation with wholes and vulnerability as a measure of love and undivided mutuality. But there is something gently devastating about forging on while fully aware of the rocky path that lies ahead, marked by the same dangers of distance, the heavy presence of the unspoken, tiredness, doubt, half-truths, idleness, forgetting. Every recent memory remains sharp and fresh at the forefront of my mind, a wash of bittersweet poignancy and premature nostalgia; skin-on-skin, pitch dark to dawn, and single beds for two. But because I can't have it with you, I will take advantage of other paths coinciding.
once again.
The older I get the more apparent it is to me that sadness can no longer be glorified as some testing, self-cleansing, insular experience that (in light of the fog of misery or the undulating choke of desolation) absolves me of any responsibility to proactively fix myself. The reality is, against all inclination I must call on the reserves of energy I have to put on a socially desirable front of calm neutrality and measured concentration, attending to commitments, fulfilling scheduled appointments, conducting everyday tasks of survival, progression and order. There are so many routes toward independence and self-sufficiency that I'm taking that come with the dispiriting prospect of enduring another year of aloneness, mind-numbing routine, thwarted new beginnings and only partly clean slates. Everywhere I go I keep recreating the same identity, carrying with me the same timidity and shame and inhibition, the unhealed scars from repeated betrayals, flimsy declarations that disintegrated with the slightest tension, sparing hearts like revolving doors or flowers that bloom every few years. I've come to accept the nature of your impenetrability as a trick of the mind, a quality I've exaggerated or dwelled on because of my fixation with wholes and vulnerability as a measure of love and undivided mutuality. But there is something gently devastating about forging on while fully aware of the rocky path that lies ahead, marked by the same dangers of distance, the heavy presence of the unspoken, tiredness, doubt, half-truths, idleness, forgetting. Every recent memory remains sharp and fresh at the forefront of my mind, a wash of bittersweet poignancy and premature nostalgia; skin-on-skin, pitch dark to dawn, and single beds for two. But because I can't have it with you, I will take advantage of other paths coinciding.
once again.