Words words words
It's not even that I'm more antisocial than I used to be, because I talk. But there's no real talk. Because I'm not doing it. Hum. I just can't, can't start that conversation which circles in my head: this conversation. There is no one to tell, because it wouldn't work for them. A sympathetic look, a hug, is all I can expect. Maybe I just want it to be normal.
Just to be able to mention, oh I got excited because a parcel came, and it was a book called When Parents Die, and I was surprised. Or in the newspaper a girl wrote anonymously about her own father's cancer, exactly the same, but just still alive, and I want to write to her really really really but y'know, what do you think? Oh, I happened to watch this episode of Grey's Anatomy where George's dad dies of cancer and it was interesting, and hard but not real so...
It all comes down to her dad died, he died, that's such a big thing SHE MIGHT CRY
"you can try and understand, but until you feel that loss..." understand shmunderstand
A need to say things to make them real, to stop them from living in my head that would never help anyone for me to say out loud
I watched him die, no actally I lay on the floor listening to his breaths, slower and slower and wished it would be over, counting the celing tiles just waiting because anything would be better than staying there, listening to this person who wasn't a person, not a man but a shell who didn't even recognise us but still smiled at nurses. Almost farcical in its nontragedy, the painful hiccups so drawn out they weren't comical and I wanted it just to be over because he had disappeared without my even noticing, before we even knew. Just tired, but not wanting to go to sleep alone, in my head.
To say, oh I had one instant when Michael Howard was talking when I thought "I can write and tell him I saw the vampire man" and it was just wonderful to have forgotten, a moment of unknowledge, and I wait for another one. That's not sad, but still there is no reply. It leaves silences in the conversation, as I say nothing, as there is no conceivable answer if I do.
So this will be it. This will be taking the words from my head, to here, where they are independent from me, safe in the knowledge that I am not hitting empty space, but there is a virtual answer. I have said them, to the hum of my computer. Hum, it says. That must be hard for you, maybe you should write to the girl. Hum, I don't feel pity, I will just be here, under your fingers. No, I cannot stroke your hair. Bit too much to hope for really. See? No tears.
Just to be able to mention, oh I got excited because a parcel came, and it was a book called When Parents Die, and I was surprised. Or in the newspaper a girl wrote anonymously about her own father's cancer, exactly the same, but just still alive, and I want to write to her really really really but y'know, what do you think? Oh, I happened to watch this episode of Grey's Anatomy where George's dad dies of cancer and it was interesting, and hard but not real so...
It all comes down to her dad died, he died, that's such a big thing SHE MIGHT CRY
"you can try and understand, but until you feel that loss..." understand shmunderstand
A need to say things to make them real, to stop them from living in my head that would never help anyone for me to say out loud
I watched him die, no actally I lay on the floor listening to his breaths, slower and slower and wished it would be over, counting the celing tiles just waiting because anything would be better than staying there, listening to this person who wasn't a person, not a man but a shell who didn't even recognise us but still smiled at nurses. Almost farcical in its nontragedy, the painful hiccups so drawn out they weren't comical and I wanted it just to be over because he had disappeared without my even noticing, before we even knew. Just tired, but not wanting to go to sleep alone, in my head.
To say, oh I had one instant when Michael Howard was talking when I thought "I can write and tell him I saw the vampire man" and it was just wonderful to have forgotten, a moment of unknowledge, and I wait for another one. That's not sad, but still there is no reply. It leaves silences in the conversation, as I say nothing, as there is no conceivable answer if I do.
So this will be it. This will be taking the words from my head, to here, where they are independent from me, safe in the knowledge that I am not hitting empty space, but there is a virtual answer. I have said them, to the hum of my computer. Hum, it says. That must be hard for you, maybe you should write to the girl. Hum, I don't feel pity, I will just be here, under your fingers. No, I cannot stroke your hair. Bit too much to hope for really. See? No tears.