It’s past midnight. Everyone in their right minds are asleep, have found the means to visit that escape. Maybe they’re content. Maybe they aren’t. But few find themselves like this.
I’m sitting on my bedroom floor. Even now, even repeating it again and again, going over it again and again, it feels as though it’s nothing. My mind swims with novocaine, my emotions cut off from feeling. It’s like stepping onto thorns, unable to feel anything, even as your blood stains the ground.
Maybe it’s best to just ignore it. To not allow it to cause you pain. But I don’t want to be a walking ghost, unfeeling and transparent. Pain passing through me without even touching my essence. I need to feel it. I want to. I want to move past it all. Not symbolically, but physically, emotionally, completely and thoroughly.
But look who’s laughing, me again. Not focusing on what’s at hand.
These words that I had written so long ago, so clean and white. So unlike the truth. A lie on the pages, although it’s all the truth. I take the wine and spill it over the words, the white pages. Ink is not enough. It needs to show exactly how it is. Messy, stained, never going to return back to it’s clean form.
I can’t drink. It burns my throat and all I can think of is how you would see this. How you would see this and laugh at me, look at how you’ve left me. The satisfaction. You can’t know. You can’t know that I can’t drink because it burns me the way you did, it makes my head spin the way you did. And suddenly all I can taste is the truth. Suddenly all I can see is the facts. The pain. And I feel it. I remember.
And it reminds me of why I don’t do this. Why I don’t feel this. Why I bury it. Why I don’t visit it. But also why I need to deal with it. Why I need to truly understand what has happened to me, and leave it behind. It has made me who I am. All of it. But I didn’t ask for any of it. I didn’t ask for pain to be what built my character. In some ways I’m proud of it. But in so many others I’m not, for I pay for it all. It isn’t a gift in any sense.
To have to deal with such an aftermath, that isn’t even an aftermath just a continuation, thinking it’s over but knowing it hasn’t even begun. Hearing it’ll end like a mantra on repeat, but you can’t even see where it began anymore. It’s like God. Always was, always will be, always is. You can’t understand it. You can’t figure it out. It just is. You can’t wrap your head around it. You want to, but you can’t.
Has the world gone mad? How are these things justified, how are they living in someone’s head? How does someone feel okay inflicting pain? To someone who is so new to life, someone who hasn’t even lived yet. What a warm welcome.
But it’s the truth, isn’t it? This world, as much as we want it to be, isn’t friendly. It isn’t filled with love and happiness. It’s filled with injustice, unfairness, people hurting people for sport. What’s better, the truth or a comforting mirage?
Through it all, I’ve stood and stumbled, but pushed forward. And what I’m doing is only admiring the pretty, easy to handle things. I don’t recognize the poisons, the death along the way. You have to. You have to understand the hardships, and don’t just bury them, deal with them. Leave them where they began.
It’s a chance to breathe again, a chance for a fresh start. You can’t take all of the baggage with you.
I’ve perfected the art of leaving what I wish to, slowly and softly. It needs to be an exorcism, a ground shaking event of what is of me leaving me, returning to the earth’s core. But in order for this to happen, it has to hit me one day. And I know it will. It will be a roaring animal, clawing me to pieces, a storm named after it all, powering through the country, a global power outage. I’m ready to feel, I’m ready to let it leave me.
Hold me down, place your hand on my head. You know I can’t do this alone. It’s in my nature, it burns inside my blood. Before it was nothing. Now it’s everything. Looking down, pure blue water beneath, all is now harmed. But it can change.
These spaces, between the happiness and the hardness.