Imploding
I'm not keeping my own promises. Pristine and pure as they were at the state of making, I can no longer keep to them. How can I demand if I'm not willing to give?
If I only have myself to blame, then I ought not complain. Deny these wistful, poignant melancholy, dive deeper into the bottomless pit known as "self", forget the things I once held close.
I start conversations but don't care, I beg attention and then reject. If human beings are like porcupines in the cold, my spikes are now wilfully malicious. My spitefulness irrational and spasmodic, my arms are both crossed and open. In moments of weakness before I sleep, it seems like any tenderness will satisfy my empty hug, the aching space which could be so easily filled. But when the day crawls by I can't bring myself to make that few advances to start, to retain, to want, to get.
Maybe happiness and many of those quaint relationships that produce it are only by-products of a greater, grander personal objective. The motivation and driving force that defines our existence, our paths and our destinations. It draws people together and separates them; people seek them differently and some gave up the search for other ends. For the people I list as "friends", many have dreams of grandeur that surpasses mine by large margins, and many are far ahead in their journey. Decreasing proximity is a necessary discomfort, and so all that we had starts to dissolve with our dying relevance to each other.
Now, any questions I ask will just appear as another useless attempt to resist the forces of a higher, more important individual order. It may seem all silly, all superfluous, all hopelessly sentimental about the same old thing that plagued me for the past near twenty years of existence. Yes, I believe I experienced more departures than others; I left more places and people behind. But those made me neither resilient nor callous. Right now I am imploding with an insecurity in between what I (seem to) have and what I am about to lose.
Yes go, I may say, go and never come back. Not like I really want you to, but no, still go. Oh I don't really know what I want to do either, or what I want to see you do. I can't be told to "relax and just let things happen" either. I'm not anyone's best friend or best friend forever. I'm not as funny, not as fun to hang around with, and so terribly ignorant about everything. There is hardly anything that we can do, I admit, so I am going to let people go; the guilt of my forced passivity and pessimism seems like the only alternative, as to some queer overwhelming uncertainty, lack of courage, and fear of rejection - to be the last one around, the last person to turn her back, the one who has to watch others' silhouette disappear into a distance.
Like a puppet with strings, I'm strangely afloat; my fingers are light but not nimble, my feet struffle but do not walk, my soul wooden but not dead.