4:08 AM
I feel wounded and I am left to question my own motives for this self inflicted pain. I don’t want to love you anymore; not if you aren’t going to love me the way that I want to be loved. It is conditional I realize that, but I can’t do it. I’m hurting and I can’t ever explain the kind of pain I feel because it hurts so much that mere words are not capable of ever doing it any justice. Most of the day I’m unbalanced from trying so hard to ignore the voice in my head. I’ve asked myself why at least one thousand times. My insides are devoid; I’ve told you that before. I’m broken and I know that I cannot ever be fixed and it isn’t because I’m not able. It is because I realize that it isn’t ever going to go away. I enable this craziness, despite the circumstances and there are times that I actually feel worse because I’m the one that has made the choice not to talk to you.
It is selfish, I know, but if I am forced to move forward and steadfast and I fear that I will not be able to do that if you are left to linger, I’m sorry. Maybe if we were normal there would be chance, but we are far from normal and I am done taking chances. I am the one left watching you walk away every time. I am the one still standing every time you look back and contemplate whether or not you’ve made the right decision and when you return, and you always do, it is validated. I am there through the wind. I am there through the rain. I am there always.
So yes, the answer is yes. I am inconsolable. I know you pretend not to understand that. I’ve notice the pattern in your behavior; how quickly you are to respond when something I feel bothers you, because you well know that your actions are the cause. You pretend that it’s not possible for someone to have the power to make you feel a certain way. So, you belittle those feelings instead of putting yourself through the distress that you in fact are their cause. You make it a point to remind me how amazing I am, but you forgot to remind me that I’m not amazing enough for you. The thing is that, I didn’t forget either of those things. Don’t try to make me feel better. Inconsolable, remember? That means there is no need for you to try.
Sometimes when I’m driving in traffic, I look out the window and I tell myself that I’m doing well and managing adequately. But instantaneously, I hear the distant laughter of that voice in my mind. I try to dispel the nauseating reality that I am living and I say epigrammatically to myself: How quickly things can change, how I wish that I could fix myself to what you find is perfect for you. If you would only bite your tongue and let me love you. Just then the voice whispers “Why”.
And when traffic is suddenly at a stand still I lower my window and I stick my hand out with my palm facing upward and as my hand divides the cold dry wind that hits it, I close my eyes for just a second and I imagine my beating heart on the palm of my very hand amidst all the chaos that surrounds it and I can see it clearly and it feels just like my hand does. I want to pull it inside and make it warm again, the thing is that it’s already inside where the cold, dry air permanently resides. I wish I could just take it out, but since I can’t, I have no choice but to allow it to beat, to pump the blood that rushes through my veins feeding my desires, weakening my resistance, sustaining my unfulfilled aspirations, allowing me to stumble unstably and I haven’t a say. I cannot force my mind to fulfill its request to resist from loving you.
I think of you throughout the day. Come to think of it, there are always sporadic moments when your physique appears in my thoughts and they scatter everywhere, everywhere but where they are suppose to be, and just before I can confine them back to my painful and unpleasant reality I pause and tell myself, “I wish it was bittersweet, like it used to be,” and I remember the old us. We have never been fun and free like you’ve wanted us to be, but we have always “been." Always, except now.
“I’m here, I’m not going anywhere." I should know by know that we are a false pretense that I have created by hanging on to your words; words like those. I’m losing myself. I toss and turn at night and I wonder if you think of me and what this is doing to my insides. How can we balance if we are always at this oddly pointed knife? It is inevitable we are bound to fall off. It isn’t real, we aren’t real. It is some fictional love story that I have created for sake of the hopeless romantic that lives imprisoned within my soul with orders to love just you. It’s sick and fictitious and that I am aware of, you are not Shakespeare and this is not some rendition of 15th century love story where we spin viciously until we are at some point rescued and rewarded with a life of “happily ever after.”
I’m sleep waking through life. It’s lucid, nonetheless. It’s catatonic and echo-less. I have to wake at some point and look up to see the edge of the knife we were standing on. The worse part is standing up and dusting myself off only to be reprimanded by that distant voice that whispers so unkindly, “Come on, you’ve know this all along. I told you so,” and I have to swallow my pride without being prejudice and wallow in the conviction of my indecision. I hate it.
As I sit and listen to “The Scientist,” the tangible truth is slowly resurfacing. Resurfacing: I don’t like that word. When things resurface it means that they where once peripheral and somehow, they were submerged and lost for some time; even if for a moment. Something has to be lost to all of a sudden resurface. When things are on the edge, they always run the risk of being unstable, falling off, or being lost. Yes, they can resurface, but why can’t they just remain on the outer boundaries of the circle consistently, instead of balancing on the extremities leaving room for the uninviting surrender and for the plummet of the breakdown? It would be so uncomplicated if it were all up to me. We would always be evidently secure on the apparent exterior surface. Never having to resurface, meaning always and consistently present. After all, isn’t that how we are supposed to live, always consistently present?
We are temporary and at this point, my vision has become blurry. I’m not sure what the end result of this will be, if it will even be at all. Nature sure played a deceitful trick on me, if this is it, after I religiously followed the course; not minding the forecast, weathering the storm, carrying my backpack, feeling unwavering while staring at my vision clearly despite the unfamiliar and unfriendly surrounding and against all odds.
As irrational as it seems, this is deeply liberating. The very act frees me from the tyranny of my internal critic, from the uneasiness that likes to dress itself up and parade around like a circus of rational hesitation. You remove my inner critic, the barrier to my life, and inside all the mystification, I become able to watch you walk away time and time again; fearless, undoubted, worry free without regrets, focused, ready, and without me and it hurts so madly to watch the beginning of our end.
