Saturday, August 27, 2016

Several endings later

It's a strange concept, love. And I'm calling it a concept because it feels even stranger to accept it as a thing. It's not tangible, though my aching fingertips would argue otherwise. It's not quantifiable, though the stories we have seem to measure it in some way. Is it a collection of memories, or is it a separate entitity to experience? Where do we find it? If we were to take the human life and dissect it like an orange, would it be found? Can we take the scalpel and point to it, teach the students, here we observe love. 

It's stranger still the things it makes you do. I feel like a dog, running in circles, jumping in hoops, all for a treat. A kiss. Affection. Or maybe I feel like the typhoons that so plague this little country of mine. Because what's the point of all this rain? All it does is leak in through my ceiling and make the air moist.

I don't know where I'm going with this. But my father told me I should start writing again, even after failing to finish all my measly attempts at novels and failing to dedicate myself to my even more pathetic attempts at blogging. So I'm going on, without knowing where I'm going. Maybe that's love. Unsure what the next sentence will be, but labor ing over each character anyway, pixels on pixels making some sort of words to eventually make a sentence to let out these ideas in my head. Maybe love is building things from pieces so small that unless you view them macroscopically it's all just jumbled scribbles.

The tightening of my chest could be due to the fact that I'm losing weight because everything tastes like cardboard. Or maybe it's a reaction to the lack of air in the room. Since you left the gravity around me has loosened again and now I'm losing things I didn't even know I could lose. Like colors and oxygen. I didn't think these things were mine enough to end up not being. But apparently they are. You learn something new everyday. 

Your pictures are still up on the wall. I never took them down because the burning my palms would feel as I lift them off their hooks would surely be worse than looking at them. I've even moved some frames closer to my bedside so I can see them clearly as I close my eyes, even with my terrible vision.

Perhaps loss would be easier to talk about. So let's try. What I know is losing you the first, oh, half dozen times? Has driven me to the ends of what I thought pain could be felt. I've been through mental facilities and rehab clinics and more emergency rooms for wrist stitches than I can count without my head getting dizzy from self pity, and yet the worst I've ever felt was you leaving. Talk about a lack of air! I've tried to kill myself more than half a dozen times and yet that was the only time I ever felt like I was dying. Because I found out I don't just need food aid sunlight water and shelter to survive, I also need you. And your leaving punched a hole in me so wide that those goddamn dogs could use it as one of their hoops. I've bled out through almost every major vein and artery reasonable reachable using a surgical blade, and yet I never experience losing as much life force as I did with your departure. Hence, the things that transpired after you left that I won't write down here. 

I got my cat Salty because I had rabbits that all died. And I was sad. So my father said the best way to mourn is to pour your love into something new, otherwise it'll spoil like milk left in the sun. So I got a cat. When my cat Salty died, I got my dog. When you left, I tried the same replacement method to stop the bleeding but it didn't work so well this time. Apparently, human relationships don't work the same way as pet ones do. Because nothing could fill the hole. Nothing could plug it up. I was running out of blood and, heck, it was so wide my damn intestines were pouring out into the floor and it was all I could do to just try and scoop everything back into me. So I tried. Because I can't even describe this pain, and I've made myself an expert on writing about depressed shit. 

Basically, I'm writing things down because my heart is broken. And my heart is broken because you're not here. And the absence is filling up with these goddamn scribbles we read, instead of being occupied by your much missed mass. Why is it I can't explain what stupid old love is but I can feel it, and especially its absence as felt through your absence, as if I know what I'm talking about? So now I'm writing things down to try and pick apart all the tangled threads of thoughts that are somehow masquerading as my brain. Whatever is in my skull definitely feels like gray matter.