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Friday, January 2, 2009

The worst thing that's ever happened? That isn't quite how I'd put it


These loneliness birds have laid stone eggs in my heart, and when they hatch, surely I will die inside.



Music plays but I can't hear it. Pictures flash on my television screen but I don't see them. All the words I've written aren't enough and so I keep writing more. I've vomited up this love-sick sickness and still there's more! I have never been so angry, so betrayed, so completely and utterly used and used-up in my life. All this love is turned to hate, boiling, frothing, running around my stomach like wild horses. I HAVEN'T TEARS ENOUGH FOR THIS! All my sadness is such a small cup in the vastness of the world's miseries, but still this hurts. I am sick from it. I am getting worse each day because I keep it in, because I can't let it out, because all it would do is destroy my life from the outside first. Gawd, how I loved, how I trusted, how I gave everything of myself and it wasn't that it wasn't enough - it was that my lover was a dream! After climbing most of my life from the hell that it had been; this is where I end up. I let myself fall from such great heights... and have been falling ever since.

But now, before the deep crash sounds, I shall contemplate. There is a lot in me to figure out. What, why, where? When was it that I started my descent into madness? How did I get here? Of all the places to find myself, this is where I last expected to come to, moving through the blackness of despair so deep, so wide, like the ocean at night; a vast unchanging surface, devouring.

And the single-most intensely troubling question: will anything ever be okay ever again? Because I just don't know anymore.



"I once heard a tale of a man who split himself in two. The one part never changed at all; the other grew and grew. The changeless part was always true, the growing part was always new, and I wondered, when the tale was through, which part was me and which was you."

I think, for us, which was which, who was what... it isn't important. The answer's are as obvious as they are redundant. I was the man, she was the woman. I was the pursuer, she was the pursued. I was the passionate one, she was the practical one. I was everything, and she was nothing. I was the reality. She was the fantasy.

Now I have to wake-up, because I'm too young for dreaming any longer.

4 footnotes:

varmintspath said...

man that was some writing especially the last paragraph. i totally relate you don't realize how that fit my relationship in so many ways too much information i won't bore you with. but that was good, now this might be a stretch but i was thinking in a strange way could it be that heartache is maybe just the thing to bring the best out of a natural poet. i don't know i'm just thinking...you know like how deep can someone be with no heartache, no tragedy, everything just about perfect. it makes a nice life but not insightful reading

Zek J Evets said...

"People flock about the poet and say to him: do sing again; which means, would that new sufferings tormented your soul, and: would that your lips stayed fashioned as before, for your cries would only terrify us, but your music is delightful. And the critics join them, saying: well done, thus must it be according to the laws of aesthetics. Why, to be sure, a critic resembles a poet as one pea another, the only difference being that he has no anguish in his heart and no music on his lips. Behold, therefore would I rather be a swineherd on Amager, and be understood by the swine than a poet, and misunderstood by men." — Either/Or, by Søren Kierkegaard

i appreciate your praise... but i'd take the pain of being boring, than the pain of being broken, because we can always write someone else's story.

varmintspath said...

well spoken but alas it goes without saying would a man choose sorrow and heartache just to hear the praises of men? God forbid, but to the ones who read the eloquent cries of a troubled soul, in so much that we begin to make the words of the poet our own voice since we all share this thing some have called the human condition. so your words that jump out at those who relate to such things, brings a needed assurance that we are not alone, so keep writing. because hey you never know you might just write something that i've been dying to say...to be continued...

Lex said...

If you die from this...I wonder if it can be called a noble death...

lovely writing btw, it's amazing what comes out when the walls are broken down.