Blight Christmas
My fingers lose all motivation to interpret my thoughts into words. This scares me. I had launched into some extended, pretentious discourse of what exactly my words mean to me, making much use of literary device. I couldn't finish it. "My words are my cover, the shield against which all of life . . ." My fingers trail off, on strike against my brain. But the best words come from the heart. If I let my heart do the talking, it might go something like:
I love, but I do not feel love.
I hurt, but I do not feel pain.
I long solely for the things I cannot have. And yet in every fiber of my being I feel that my longing is just, and that if only my longing were fulfilled, the world would burst into blinding brilliant color and everything would make sense. Love is a devil, lust even moreso, and the two take shape in you. You give lust her sweets and love her sting. I fear that to have you for only a moment would send me into madness, and yet to be denied you for the whole of my life keeps me merely on the edge of sanity. I think the former is to be desired. I would swim through an ocean of ice to bring you your heart's desire. Nothing compares to you. It's you. It's always been you.
What I feel is loneliness. This isn't exactly true. It's like saying that what a fish feels is water. The stuff of my existence is loneliness. My heart beats alone. My mind thinks alone. And my life will, inevitably, be lived alone. I welcome my fate, because anything less than you is less than nothing.
I watched as the people I loved fell away from me like flies. And in the face of such unimaginable terror and responsibility, I ran. I ran so far away that I was all alone. It's a long journey back, and yes, I could make it. But to return home and find anything, anyone, less than you waiting for me would stop my beating heart, stop my thinking mind. So I sit and I wait for you to ask of me just one more time because all I do, all I have done, has been for you.
I wish I could hate you, to get you off my mind.