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We don't even talk through intermediaries. I don't know where or who you even are any more.
I think we're both okay with this.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally think about you. Seven years of emotions tends to leave residue, especially when four of those years could be termed 'positive' by the loosest of definitions. Memories of arguments over nothing, hours spent on the phone reassuring us that things were going to be okay, months spent alone wondering whether if it was all worth it. Like clockwork, the cold air of winter summons the specter of the final damning phone call. Overseas, unannounced, the one last attempt at saving whatever we had become at that point. The one truly unforgivable sin that I committed, because I went back on my word.
Looking back, all I really got out of the deal was a pile of memories that I can't rely on and the knowledge that I gambled my soul and happiness on things working out. They didn't and I was left holding a bag of time. Four more years in something I hated, knowing that every day that I woke up was another day in drudgery by my choice. A choice made with the best intentions with the best information at hand, that ended up being the worst possible one.
I used to be angry, sullen, bitter. I wanted you to suffer like I did. I wanted you to have the sudden cosmic revelation that while I couldn't save things, you were certainly complicit in the dissolution. I wanted you to give me the satisfaction of knowing how deluded I was.
Mind you, 'was' implies past tense.
Now there's just pity. Pity for the years we spent shackled to whatever form of communication we had instead of doing something with ourselves. Pity for the time and energy we spent trying to fix something that would never be mended rather than growing as individuals. Pity for the naïveté that led us there, and pity for those who preyed upon us.
No pity for what could have been. In hindsight, what could have been never was.
So here I am, ten minutes before I get ready for work and declare my two weeks' notice. Two weeks left before I get my soul back from layaway. Two weeks before I'm no longer wearing a reminder of what I sacrificed for you. Two weeks before the longest chapter of my life thus far comes to a close.
Without you, without us, I wouldn't be here. I don't see the point in elaborating on 'here' because I know where I am and you don't want to hear the answer. Suffice to say, I got what I wanted out of the whole thing. All of it. Not all at once, not all comfortably, but all of it eventually.
for once, I'm not really sure how I want to phrase my thought, nor even what thoughtword to file it under. I come here to rant, to cry, to scream, to sing, to vent all these emotions I can't quite express in my daily life. it's cathartic to put how I'm feeling down into text, it helps me to pin down my thoughts on a particular subject when I'm feeling confused or upset.
I enjoy trying to express my emotions in writing. it's not a medium I'm accustomed to using normally, being more of a digital paintbrushes and sculpture kind of artist in my dayjob. and it's very satisfying when I get it right, whether it's the crushing despair of 'useless', the heartfelt love of 'song', the desperation of, well, 'desperation', or whatever 'restless' was. some are more carefully crafted than others, some just come out in a rush of words and feelings with the odd bit of punctuation, but when I come back even years later and read them, I feel an echo of how things were when I wrote it. even when I don't come out and say what was up, I remember all the details; I remember smiling blissfully writing 'music' and I remember the dark room and bone-weariness that prompted 'dailies'.
some of the things I've written about have been so terribly trivial, others were the most important things in the world at the time. but now, as one of the most traumatising and stressful series of events of my life come to a head, I can't pull a skein of thought free from the mélage in my head. I have so, so much to say, and all day every day for the past few weeks I've felt the toxic mess of fear, anger and despair bubble within me. a moment, later reconsidered and reconstructed, burst free in 'bullshit', but that's only the tip of the iceberg. so many times I have turned to the ether to pour myself into it again, but this time it's so overwhelming, so all-consuming, that I don't even know where to start.
perhaps tomorrow I will know how to write again. because I need it, now. I need this very particular form of catharsis so badly.
I got a little bit last night. I feel a bit better.
I think that I might be freaking out because I feel socially isolated nowadays. I'm not making connections with people like I used to, and there are too many people that I want to make connections with that are now too distant, or have grown uninterested in me, or that I never encounter anymore. The attempts I make to reach out to people tend to result in me feeling like I did in highschool, torn up about any little social failing and longing for the attention of the people I admire, the people that admire me but remain distant, and the people that I want to know more about. Then I feel stupid for being so wrapped up in wanting friends and acceptance, then I feel aggravated for letting it get to me, then that all makes me nervous about approaching people because I'm sure I'm going to give off the vibe that I'm either stuck in a ridiculous highschool mentality or that I'm just plain crazy.
I guess I should get out more. Go on trips to see friends, go to clubs and talk with strangers, host parties, etc.
So now I guess I'm making a list of things that I need to do to stay happy and stable. I have to produce, go through hardship, and make new connections with either new or familiar people. This list might grow with further thought.
I'm feeling a creeping sense of instability in me. Things and people from the past are reappearing, I've gone too long without any real trauma, and I've been feeling more often than ever that I need to take care of some of these things that have gone unaddressed for so long. I feel like an insect that's past due for shedding its skin.
I need to paint a portrait of someone in blood, or lock myself in a room with a notebook and a bottle of tequila, or disappear somewhere on some dangerous journey, or confront a demon or two that have worn out their welcomes.
I need to die a little. I think that that's how I work. Indulge in a dark, fatalist aesthetic and subject myself to physical hardship as a sort of self-renewal process.
It's just always been hard for me to decide between just engaging in this as a 24/7 lifestyle or easing up off of it most of the time and then occasionally going off the deep end. Either would be just as easy.
Fuck. This isn't complicated. I just need catharsis. Bloody, goddamned catharsis.