Through the northern windows.
There is hardly a process to explain how blood reminds me that I always reside in the future. Scraped my elbow twice and drowned it with isopropyl alcohol; all I could think about was how tolerable the pain was compared to lingering regret - how satisfying it is to feel certain things as they happen, to be to be pulled, wincing, to experience the present. The difference right now between heartbreak and heartache is the difference between broken bones and a broken spirit - the pain is visceral and then it mends, or the pain is never quite in the door, but never quite leaving. There is something unwanted about the pain only half inside ( like a frosty draft on autumn mornings, the ones you still feel despite the layers separating your skin from the cold ).
Some things, like some days, feel like they should be lonely; there is no right way to justify that, to say that I prefer heartbreak to heartache and expect you to understand. The choices we make aren’t always to relieve ourselves of suffering - sometimes it is quite the opposite case, and yet there is something extremely understandable about that. Sometimes we get it on the first try; we accept that to build new things we have to tear down remnants, even though the skeleton of what was there is beautiful, even if the vision of what will be there is not quite clear. The choices we make aren’t always the safest ones, but we’ve never agreed about what harm is.
On the lonely days some things feel wrong in the right ways, and there is no way to explain that either, except deep wounds over dull ghosts, you know? You know. These moments never weigh the same but they are steady; in the morning they never weigh quite as much, and that’s nice sometimes. It’s comforting despite its nature to fall asleep knowing this, knowing that the space between your ribs will never be that full when you wake.