13 Conversations.
13 Conversations simulcast as one. Unrelated, yet...
One. Proximity. I feel myself pulling away from it all. I'm clocking out... punching that ticket and running towards the main entrance and the freedom that lay beyond its gates. I have left this body of mine, this vessel, and am standing in the background watching this scene unfold. Despondent. Reality, such that it is, cannot anchor me to the ground. My mind floats high above it all, above these conversations and pleasantries, and my attention has left the current topic of discussion hours ago. I am racing toward what the future may hold in store, evaluating the options as I imagine them developing. We are two bodies writhing underneath the blankets that cover my bed. Our limbs intertwine and we glide over one another like blades of grass rustled by an autumn wind, swaying and bending and falling toward each other as this temptation continues to unfold. The kiss from your lips snaps me back into this body of mine so that I may savor the sensation it provides. The human form was built to enjoy such simple pleasures; the numerous nerve endings in our lips thrive on connecting our mind to the outside world and to other entities. I feel connected to you. I feel like I want to be here to listen to the things you have to say. I am here and you hold my attention in this place.
Two. Despair. I have never seen you so broken. I have never seen you lose all of your faith before, and I am terrified by how far you have fallen. I wipe away your tears and kiss you on the forehead as you speak to me, interjecting bits of encouragement and reason when necessary. The desperation clings to your words and your voice falters and wavers as you strain to piece it all together. The entire theme revolves around love. Love and how it is used. Love and how it takes shape. Love has become anger. Love has become regret. Love has become utter disappointment. But what you fail to realize is that love will become forgiveness; love will become resolve. "I don't want you to think that I'm a freak." You shared with me that you had contemplated suicide, and I almost lost my composure. My mind flashed to a world of grey, a world that had become numb without you in it. I asked how you would have done it. "Knife. Electrical appliance in bathtub. Prescription drug overdose." My god, you were serious... You're so strong, and yet you had allowed your expectations for yourself and the expectations of others to trap you in this place. You cry into my shoulder and I know that I am the only person in this world with the ability to make you open up the way that you have. That is an awesome responsibility, and one that I will never take for granted. I love you too much to ever let you hurt yourself, let alone allow anyone else to hurt you.
Three. Doubt. You exploded out of my car, thanking me for the ride home before slamming the door shut. "I'm done." You had spent the entire ride staring out of the back window of my car, watching the skyline materialize and vanish as we crossed the city. There was no way for me to get inside that mind of yours. You have locked me out before and it is a terrible feeling. I do not know what caused your silence in the backseat. I am tired of veiled anger and dramatic episodes, and I think that I have been through too much with you and have known you for too long to have you ever shut me out like that. With every passing hour, I grow more angry and hurt by your actions. I deserve some semblance of respect, and so far, I have received none from you in this regard.
Four. Pity. I may never know the real you. The desire to do so wanes as this night passes. You continue into an alcohol-induced stupor, and you paw at me with lazy gestures and uncoordinated fingers. You dance out of sync with the beat and my lead, choosing to follow your own misguided instincts. Your notion of seduction is tired. Can't you see these same tactics being employed in every other corner of the bar? I excuse myself to use the bathroom and you barely seem to notice at this point. This of course is a lie, a concocted wile that ends with me grabbing my jacket and bursting out into the street. You may miss me, you may... but I will long forget you when my head comes to rest upon my pillow. I pull my collar up around my neck and hail a cab, asking the driver to take me to any place where the people are phony and the conversation fake. You can take me anywhere.
Five. Shame. I am a mess. I have been drinking steady since 3 in the afternoon and it is now 11 at night. My head is spinning and I am sitting here trying to collect myself. Pull it together, Andy. I have accelerated past fun drunk and am now non-functional drunk. I am ashamed of myself. I am the person I so often look down upon, the person who has lost control of themselves in their surroundings. I force glass after glass of water back into my system to replace the volume of fluid the alcohol will displace. In the morning, my body will be dried out and my vessels will contain only a small trickle of blood. My meninges will be dehydrated and will cling to my brain, causing an awful headache and nausea. My stomach will burn from the alcohol tearing away at its mucus lining. And all I can do now is sit and drink glass after glass of water, and just pray that I can escape an awful hangover. Why do we cycle in and out of this pattern of destruction? I am a mess and I am ashamed of who I have allowed myself to become. I must be quite the court jester... quite the village idiot.
Conversations continue on.
One. Proximity. I feel myself pulling away from it all. I'm clocking out... punching that ticket and running towards the main entrance and the freedom that lay beyond its gates. I have left this body of mine, this vessel, and am standing in the background watching this scene unfold. Despondent. Reality, such that it is, cannot anchor me to the ground. My mind floats high above it all, above these conversations and pleasantries, and my attention has left the current topic of discussion hours ago. I am racing toward what the future may hold in store, evaluating the options as I imagine them developing. We are two bodies writhing underneath the blankets that cover my bed. Our limbs intertwine and we glide over one another like blades of grass rustled by an autumn wind, swaying and bending and falling toward each other as this temptation continues to unfold. The kiss from your lips snaps me back into this body of mine so that I may savor the sensation it provides. The human form was built to enjoy such simple pleasures; the numerous nerve endings in our lips thrive on connecting our mind to the outside world and to other entities. I feel connected to you. I feel like I want to be here to listen to the things you have to say. I am here and you hold my attention in this place.
Two. Despair. I have never seen you so broken. I have never seen you lose all of your faith before, and I am terrified by how far you have fallen. I wipe away your tears and kiss you on the forehead as you speak to me, interjecting bits of encouragement and reason when necessary. The desperation clings to your words and your voice falters and wavers as you strain to piece it all together. The entire theme revolves around love. Love and how it is used. Love and how it takes shape. Love has become anger. Love has become regret. Love has become utter disappointment. But what you fail to realize is that love will become forgiveness; love will become resolve. "I don't want you to think that I'm a freak." You shared with me that you had contemplated suicide, and I almost lost my composure. My mind flashed to a world of grey, a world that had become numb without you in it. I asked how you would have done it. "Knife. Electrical appliance in bathtub. Prescription drug overdose." My god, you were serious... You're so strong, and yet you had allowed your expectations for yourself and the expectations of others to trap you in this place. You cry into my shoulder and I know that I am the only person in this world with the ability to make you open up the way that you have. That is an awesome responsibility, and one that I will never take for granted. I love you too much to ever let you hurt yourself, let alone allow anyone else to hurt you.
Three. Doubt. You exploded out of my car, thanking me for the ride home before slamming the door shut. "I'm done." You had spent the entire ride staring out of the back window of my car, watching the skyline materialize and vanish as we crossed the city. There was no way for me to get inside that mind of yours. You have locked me out before and it is a terrible feeling. I do not know what caused your silence in the backseat. I am tired of veiled anger and dramatic episodes, and I think that I have been through too much with you and have known you for too long to have you ever shut me out like that. With every passing hour, I grow more angry and hurt by your actions. I deserve some semblance of respect, and so far, I have received none from you in this regard.
Four. Pity. I may never know the real you. The desire to do so wanes as this night passes. You continue into an alcohol-induced stupor, and you paw at me with lazy gestures and uncoordinated fingers. You dance out of sync with the beat and my lead, choosing to follow your own misguided instincts. Your notion of seduction is tired. Can't you see these same tactics being employed in every other corner of the bar? I excuse myself to use the bathroom and you barely seem to notice at this point. This of course is a lie, a concocted wile that ends with me grabbing my jacket and bursting out into the street. You may miss me, you may... but I will long forget you when my head comes to rest upon my pillow. I pull my collar up around my neck and hail a cab, asking the driver to take me to any place where the people are phony and the conversation fake. You can take me anywhere.
Five. Shame. I am a mess. I have been drinking steady since 3 in the afternoon and it is now 11 at night. My head is spinning and I am sitting here trying to collect myself. Pull it together, Andy. I have accelerated past fun drunk and am now non-functional drunk. I am ashamed of myself. I am the person I so often look down upon, the person who has lost control of themselves in their surroundings. I force glass after glass of water back into my system to replace the volume of fluid the alcohol will displace. In the morning, my body will be dried out and my vessels will contain only a small trickle of blood. My meninges will be dehydrated and will cling to my brain, causing an awful headache and nausea. My stomach will burn from the alcohol tearing away at its mucus lining. And all I can do now is sit and drink glass after glass of water, and just pray that I can escape an awful hangover. Why do we cycle in and out of this pattern of destruction? I am a mess and I am ashamed of who I have allowed myself to become. I must be quite the court jester... quite the village idiot.
Conversations continue on.