Sometimes there is pain but nowhere to put it. Where
does it go?
Walking through the different levels of grief alone now, when we were supposed to do it together.
Or maybe it was all a figment of my imagination? The importance I pleaded silently from you?
‘ I could rest my head just knowin’ that you were mine. All mine.’
But were you?
The human brain, left to itself, chooses to rearrange events, word, gestures. Dissolve barriers and create meaning in things you think held value.
I am losing my mind.
The last vestiges of sanity seem to be slipping from me, melting down and trickling into empty Void.
This schism between someone who is adapting, surviving, bent but not broken.
And someone who does not want to adapt, who does not want to survive, who wants to break.
I am tired of being the ‘strong’ one.
How much longer?
I don’t know.
Self-pity comes easily on a dry, cold November night. But this is more than this. What is the meaning of anything really?
The thing that strikes me more that anything else is that I may not have been all that important to you in the final days, that this is a horrible way of showing me that I had got a chance, and another, and another, to love you, to understand you, to help you, and I had failed.
You, better that anyone else knew my fixation with what I don’t have. Possibly I never wanted you because I always thought I had you.
The one day, one pure day of peace, such as I have never known. One day of unadulterated Happiness. When I was one with another body and more than that- I felt one with another soul. The way another being can mingle completely with you, without even touching you. Has anyone else been able to do it?
Rather it was me who came pleading to you that night, yes it was me. My conscious self says it was somnambulism- but that is just defence. Yes, I can accept that I desired you! The tension that was palpable within four walls, heavy like a weight on my heart. These are Romantic terms. But then it was one day within A Week That Never Was. And then back to reality.
And things became worse. And now how do I accept this reality?
‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.’
Dead. Why dead? Why always Death?
Why always strife? Why not Life? Why not Life?
And if Death, why then you? Why not I?
And if there was love then why not a word about me? Not a single secret letter? Not a post-it? No message? None. No love? Loving me was done?
Words are incoherent, sentences remain unspun, my fingers are shaking, my very thought is numb.
Mad girl’s love song. Mad song of a girl in love. At last. At last. At last.
Madness on a page by Me. She, on the other hand is cured for tonight and goes with tempest feet in search for Him. Answers. She needs answers. She DEMANDS it this time.
A stretch of field bursting with wild purple flower with a solitary tree in the distance, flattened at the top, is it under those dark branches that She will wait for Him?
A winding waterfall that falls musically into a sparkle, its mist forming pale pink clouds. Is it in that cloudscape that She will find Him, floating on a guitar-shaped puff perhaps?
Or is it in that room on the roof of the old house in which She last bade Him goodbye? The place where Her lips almost, almost touched His cheek, but never did. As if Her very being was informing Her that this was the last time She was seeing Him breathe?
She has six hours to find Him before She returns to Me tonight.
It is no wonder that I never remember my dreams these days.
Walking through the different levels of grief alone now, when we were supposed to do it together.
Or maybe it was all a figment of my imagination? The importance I pleaded silently from you?
‘ I could rest my head just knowin’ that you were mine. All mine.’
But were you?
The human brain, left to itself, chooses to rearrange events, word, gestures. Dissolve barriers and create meaning in things you think held value.
I am losing my mind.
The last vestiges of sanity seem to be slipping from me, melting down and trickling into empty Void.
This schism between someone who is adapting, surviving, bent but not broken.
And someone who does not want to adapt, who does not want to survive, who wants to break.
I am tired of being the ‘strong’ one.
How much longer?
I don’t know.
Self-pity comes easily on a dry, cold November night. But this is more than this. What is the meaning of anything really?
The thing that strikes me more that anything else is that I may not have been all that important to you in the final days, that this is a horrible way of showing me that I had got a chance, and another, and another, to love you, to understand you, to help you, and I had failed.
You, better that anyone else knew my fixation with what I don’t have. Possibly I never wanted you because I always thought I had you.
The one day, one pure day of peace, such as I have never known. One day of unadulterated Happiness. When I was one with another body and more than that- I felt one with another soul. The way another being can mingle completely with you, without even touching you. Has anyone else been able to do it?
Rather it was me who came pleading to you that night, yes it was me. My conscious self says it was somnambulism- but that is just defence. Yes, I can accept that I desired you! The tension that was palpable within four walls, heavy like a weight on my heart. These are Romantic terms. But then it was one day within A Week That Never Was. And then back to reality.
And things became worse. And now how do I accept this reality?
‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.’
Dead. Why dead? Why always Death?
Why always strife? Why not Life? Why not Life?
And if Death, why then you? Why not I?
And if there was love then why not a word about me? Not a single secret letter? Not a post-it? No message? None. No love? Loving me was done?
Words are incoherent, sentences remain unspun, my fingers are shaking, my very thought is numb.
Mad girl’s love song. Mad song of a girl in love. At last. At last. At last.
Madness on a page by Me. She, on the other hand is cured for tonight and goes with tempest feet in search for Him. Answers. She needs answers. She DEMANDS it this time.
A stretch of field bursting with wild purple flower with a solitary tree in the distance, flattened at the top, is it under those dark branches that She will wait for Him?
A winding waterfall that falls musically into a sparkle, its mist forming pale pink clouds. Is it in that cloudscape that She will find Him, floating on a guitar-shaped puff perhaps?
Or is it in that room on the roof of the old house in which She last bade Him goodbye? The place where Her lips almost, almost touched His cheek, but never did. As if Her very being was informing Her that this was the last time She was seeing Him breathe?
She has six hours to find Him before She returns to Me tonight.
It is no wonder that I never remember my dreams these days.
