Misc prose, Uncategorized, Writing

okay, i’ll admit it – i’m scared. i’m scared that the world is going to end before i do. i don’t know how to deal with that. the idea was always that i was a finite point and whilst i couldn’t choose my beginning, my ending would be on my terms. there’s dignity in choice. take that away, and what do you have left? but now, now it feels like the world is going to end and i’m not ready. i haven’t done enough yet. i don’t know what i was planning on doing – but – something. and if the world ends, really fucking ends, then it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? this entire endeavour. a shout into the void. sartre’s existential crisis, writ across the entirety of human history.

it’s funny, i didn’t think i’d be scared. the world ending should be a get out of jail free card, right? the ultimate excuse.

but i’m scared, heart in my throat scared.

and i’m not sure what to do with that.

Misc prose, Writing

he was the smallest wisp of himself, something almost entirely destroyed, as though that was something novel and not his burden for the last twenty one years.

Misc prose, Uncategorized, Writing

It’s weird, I think, seeing things you’ll never have, whether it be in the media or books or real life, experiencing second hand emotions and touches and those small innocent moments of love which are undefinable yet so, so important. It feels like intruding, as though you’ll ugly them up by your mere presence. It feels like a heavy weight on your chest, a knowledge, a certainty, and it makes you curl up at night under the duvet, like a dormouse, a small ball of limbs, pretending there’s somebody besides you but knowing, with a clarity you can’t deny, that there’ll never be anybody beside you, that the arm thrown over your waist is your own, and that you can’t pretend that the heaviness that it lends to your hip belongs to another. It’s weird, I think, reading love story after love story and knowing that your story doesn’t include that word: the four letter word that matters most, that you may feel it, but nobody is going to feel it for you. That it will always remain abstract, something other people experience, something you don’t get to have, because you don’t deserve it, and because you’d fuck if up if someone did look twice. But thankfully, thankfully, nobody looks twice, at the mess of hair on your head, or the way your smile turns down, or the way your body is a mess of a life ill-spent. So you sleep and you dream, and for maybe moments you know what it’s like to feel the touch of a hand against yours, or lips on lips, or just the trust and faith in another human being. It isn’t real, but it’s the closest thing to, and when you wake and touch a finger to your lips, chapped and dry, you try to recall the sensation, but it’s already fading. It feels like a small life, a life full of yearning, of looking through dirty windows and trying to catch a glimpse at what could have been. There’s no five stages of grief, no acceptance. Just this: that you are alone, and that you deserve it, because you are you and that isn’t enough, and shouldn’t be enough. The sense that you are unworthy is palpable, you can almost hold it in your hands. You are unworthy of this beautiful gift, which is why the music didn’t stop on you when the gods played pass the parcel with your life. You never got to unwrap it, never got to see the prize. Maybe one day, you’ll be okay with that. But today and tomorrow and all the days for months and years to come? It’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt more than anything you’ve ever experienced. And nobody will ever understand, as they lace their fingers through the fingers of their loved one, how lucky they are. How intrinsically better they are than you. How their lives shine and sparkle and have this gleam to them which yours never will. It’s a loss, in a way, you are mourning the loss of a potential outcome because you believed it could happen to you. But of course, really, you’re you, and what did you fucking expect? All you are is skin and bones and no words, no loveliness. You’ll die as you live, alone, unremembered, un-thought of. Because of some quirk of fate twenty seven years ago that broke you. And keeps breaking you. Every single day. And you would scream, but you don’t have the energy anymore. Not for that, not for anything. So you watch from a distance as people gravitate towards each other. And you grow smaller. And colder. Until the fire no longer warms you and the bed seems so much bigger. You curl up a little tighter and imagine the heat of a body beside you. But the cold air sneaks under the blankets and reminds you. Not for you. This is not for you.

Misc prose, Uncategorized, Writing

I’d been trying to tell you for a while at that point, that I wanted something concrete, set in stone, you know? That a few hazy days texts felt shallow at best and cursory at worst. Careless, almost. I tried to be understanding, I did, that your phone crashed a lot and your dyslexia made it hard for you to read and write, and so I didn’t push, because pushing only leads to pushing away, which was the last thing I wanted.

‘Course, when it comes to what I want, I never know ’til it’s too late. And sometimes my brain can’t make its damn mind up at all.

Part of me wanted it all, the grand gestures, the sensation of skin on skin, lips on lips, the words spoken between lovers, you know. And another part of me was too damn tired, too damn worn down by promises and maybes and tomorrows and never ever the promise of something exclusive, something unique.

Selfish, I know, but I never, ever, claimed I wasn’t.

Is it a Mexican stand-off if one party doesn’t know they’re involved? ‘Cos it sure feels like one nonetheless. You said you had nothing to say, so I’m letting you say it. What can I possibly respond with, if you don’t have words after a freaking holiday? I think you forget how damn isolated I am, how a holiday is as sparkly, shiny, rare as a trip to the moon for me. I’d listen to every word you had to say about it, look at every photo you took. But I guess, if you ain’t in the mood for sharing, I won’t be in the mood for listenin’.

I think I like love stories a lot more than I like love as a concept. Love stories have definitive endings, or they fade to black and you know, with that fuzzy feeling inside, that everything’s going to be okay. Real life ain’t like that. Real life is uncertainty and knowing that one day you’re going to wake up next to someone and wonder if you even know them any more. Real life is crueller by half and then some.

I understand completely why you wouldn’t want to tether yourself to one person – what if it went wrong, you know? And I understand completely why you wouldn’t wouldn’t want to tether yourself to me – the most boring human alive. There are trainspotters with more compelling stories to tell, let me assure you. Vibrant and excited, they’ll tell you about the time they saw such-and-such and how it changed their life. What can I tell you? Nothin’ like that.

I am, ultimately, a failed experiment. Psychology gone wrong. I think every child is an attempt to create something beautiful, but I got warped along the way and now I’m ugly and uncertain and so, so freaking selfish.

So – tell me if I got this right. I love you, but you don’t love me. And you never will. And finally, finally, I’m okay with that.

Love ain’t for the likes of me, the outskirts of humanity. It’s a nice pipe dream, and reading about it sure is fun, but it’s not a reality. And that’s okay, really.

Just – just don’t text for a while, okay? Or ever, preferably. Because I fall again so easy every time. And your words are like moves on a dance floor, smooth and silky and supple, and I try to keep up and follow the beat but I just can’t. Yet they’re utterly compelling . You do what I can’t do. You keep me reading, wanting more. And I think you know you’re doing it, because otherwise you would have stopped. Because there’s nothing more fun than seeing a cat bat at a feather on a string, or chase a laser dot. Cat ain’t never going to get a filling meal out of it, but it sure is cute how they try.

I’m the cat in this analogy, I should mention.

You know, being lonely sucks. Seeing the same damn faces ’til you start to hate them just for their familiarity sucks. And it’s all I can do to keep from screaming sometimes. But the answer? It’s not you, is it?

It’s not you.

Sorry, baby doll.