Sometimes I feel like I’m underwater and that I won’t ever resurface again. The light at the top gets further and further away, and I just keep sinking deeper into the abyss, breathless in a cold world with no end. The darkness is going to consume me. Swallow me whole. It’ll accept these long half-empty remains and gift me with reprieve.
I’ll lay adrift between the realms of consciousness—that sweet holy divide where I can get lost forever, trapped in torpid comfort where I’m neither angry, nor content; neither tired, nor awake. It’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s just me there, in a place light will never reach. Those strips that are always too busy slipping through my fingers or mockingly lingering on the edge of my vision whenever I try to reach out will be gone completely, and, as always, I will be left alone with my thoughts, with this diseased mind of mine that I’m quite sick of. But that’s beside the point. Because, ultimately, I will be left alone—with nothing to worry about or ruminate over.
It’s an appealing thought.
But it’s hard to be concerned.
I feel static.
Numb… or something. Wow. And I call myself an author. Eloquent, right? Even trapped might’ve sounded better. But I’m on my phone, typing this at an ungodly hour (5:08am) because I can’t bother to do anything else, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t use back to delete anything (except typos).
Wait. Let me try again.
I feel like the worth of what I say I love has diminished, and is now equal to everything else I have no opinion on. Like the air is too viscous to move in. Like there’s a lantern with a depressing light, casting shadows over the world as it revolves in a place I can’t find. I need the off switch. I hope it has one.
There. That’s better.
Rereading the second, I can’t help but think that holy hell, I’m good at describing things in such a pretty (and angsty) fashion.
But my awful, borderline narcissistic humor aside, I wholeheartedly believe that if, at this moment, I just ceased to exist, then I’d count it as a blessing.
I hate my recurring thoughts. They speak of truths that I’m already familiar with, of instances in my head that I once twisted to suit my own weaknesses, of past problems that I don’t need bogging me down—I already have too many of those. Too many.
I don’t need reminders of the days when it hurt to be alive because there they are, always lingering one step behind, prepared to pounce on me should I unwittingly open that door. Hell, sometimes I’m not even near it, sometimes I’m just sitting down utterly bored or way too happy and the thing flies right open. As if forced to by a gale of cruelty that I don’t understand, but I know one thing… it has this tendency of following me around. Of vanishing and returning at the strangest of times. I’m not dense enough to not realize what that cutting wind might be, neither do I seek help for it. It’s there, and that’s that. I know the draft will pass, and though they may turn into full blown hurricanes, even those lose their potency in the face of the unyielding sea.
I have never once needed help trying to compartmentalize all the thoughts that run rampant inside my mind.
I suppose, what I’m really trying to say is that… today, I’m just tired of feeling tired.
You keep asking me to help you even though you can see me already caving under the weight of my own burdens. I can’t carry yours, too. But if you can find the will to walk with me, then I won’t mind pushing you forward every now and again.
Stay wrapped here in my arms, where space between us doesn’t exist. Where sighs are downed by the press of ribs against ribs and the rest of the world becomes the dream.
A bit more bitter than usual?
I’ve never been the type of person that needs help sorting thing out in my own mind. No matter how utterly dreary my writing can get sometimes. I have volatile, self-deprecating moods, and I learned long ago that alone time can do wonders for the soul—for my soul.
For me, it’s a necessity. I need periods of utter silence to function. Tranquility in the morning for my first cup of coffee, more calm in the night when I just want to sit, listen to music, and forget about the rest of the world. Independent to a fault. So unuse to living with others that that’s how I’ve become. I adore you for trying to break through the transparent bubble around me and going out of your way to find a place for yourself, but you’ve brought a hammer and all that surrounds me is soap. It pops easily. And you do it so abruptly that it startles me away.
People are always different. I’m not the type that will suddenly decide to help you tear down my defenses if you keep approaching me with constant callousness. Do you know how astoundingly difficult it is to find the will to do things when the world is talking over my thoughts? When the safety net I surrounded myself with is forced to grow to fit someone else?
I don’t need any more voices. Rest assured, I’ll call you when I do. Respect that I need to sort things out in my head, that I need time to prepare myself on my own because my mind doesn’t take kindly to the unsolicited.
I am perfectly willing to let you in. But at my own pace. I promise not to take too long. I’m not such a failure of a man to keep someone waiting to the point of doubt, of restlessness, of irritation.
For now, take a hint. I need space.
You cared for me when I didn’t think I was worth caring for.
Thank you for that.
I’m kind of not-so-secretly in love with you.
I wonder when you’ll call me out on it.
I wonder when my lips will be able to tell you, despite knowing the frown it’ll bring to your own.
I’m here once again.
Not lost and lonely. Not tired either. No exhaustion from the turbulence of the world moving along around me. I’m in that place. That happy one I thought existed only beyond my dreams and in other people’s lives. Because I didn’t know that Heaven could be on an uncomfortable cloth seat with bad lighting and shit music playing in the background. I didn’t realize that the noise of other people could be so soothing and I certainly didn’t think I’d actually come to one day enjoy the cold.
But here, hopefully not just this once, I learned the true meaning of recovery. I basked in the glory of being so filled with happiness that the word brimming seemed inadequate. Of feeling so entirely loved and accepted that my flaws and all my insecurities suddenly didn’t matter—perhaps they never did.
Everyone deserves to be loved, they say, though not everyone will have the privilege. There were days I thought I wouldn’t have it either. Weeks when I wholeheartedly believed no one would ever see me the way I fantasized in my head. Months of pure nothing. But for reasons beyond comprehension, your presence quieted every single voice, every thought. Until even that doubting monster in the back of my mind was eased into a state of… well, not peace, but something that feels a lot like it.
During the early hours of January second, when the rest of the world was still drunk out of their minds and motionless in bed, sleeping off the final dregs of another year. We stopped by that overpriced airport store to buy what must’ve been our fifth bottle of water as we waited until whatever accident responsible for the flight delay passed—remember? I hope you do. I wonder if you remember what came after as well. When you fell asleep on my lap, comfortable, safe, content. Almost to the point of offense, really.
Between the easy lines of your face and the exhaustion that curved my shoulders downward, I wonder why all I could do was smile. Very stupidly at that. The world just seemed so beautiful then. I knew it was because of you. Your quiet breaths were the only thing that mattered. From the steady rise and fall of your chest to every minor twitch, I memorized it all. It was so easy to focus. The weight on my shoulders didn’t feel quite as heavy that day. Or perhaps it was because I had a reason to stand a little straighter… yes, I like that explanation. I’ll go with that.
Oh, I adore you.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Well, I’m sorry that you can’t listen to Oasis and the fine voices of the Gallagher brothers without thinking of me. Their tunes are biblical—yes, even their B-sides. There’s something about Noel Gallagher’s voice that has the ability to get me out of moods, spiral me into depressive states, and even keep me occupied for weeks… and utterly happy at that. I have no regrets about the amount of time I’ve wasted just sitting down in front of my computer screen and shattering my speakers with his voice.
If the world went to hell, I’d save my Oasis vinyls.
And if you associate them with me, well… I’m not sorry for it. (A part of me is even pleased that I’m in some way linked to one of my favorite bands). When things go bad, some scars are always left. Rot always lingers. Beneath the surface, perhaps, but there nonetheless. And I wholeheartedly wish I didn’t ruin such a wonderful band for you. But with my constant playing of their glorious songs in the background every hour of the day—as I recall, you once told me you were sick of them—I can see how you probably can’t listen to their tunes without thoughts of me popping up and blackening your morning.
I can understand that. I feel the same whenever I see an awkwardly colored alarm clock or inhale the scent of downy fabric softener. Do you know what it’s like to not be able to use Downy anymore? Fucking life wrecking. I swear I try something new every month because I get tired of all these other subpar brands. But that’s my problem now, isn’t it? Breakups are always game changing. Anger lingers, even if sadness doesn’t. And nostalgia’s there, too, ruining more than what we thought possible.
How is it that a simple scent can make me feel like my whole world’s going to crash down on my shoulders? Like I can’t breathe and I have to hunker down with my head buried in my knees because I can’t let anymore pieces of myself go—I’m already missing so many. So, so many.
I know exactly how you feel.
I don’t blame you though. Because that’s my fault. My heart’s a weak, fragile thing that feels too deeply and remembers too clearly. I know that the same courtesy isn’t always extended and everyone thinks differently. But honestly… why should I—or anyone else for that matter—be blamed for the crime of simply having good taste?