Authors Note: First off, hello! I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I just enjoyed rediscovering and editing it . (: This was written in late 2014, around the time when drugs swam in my veins nearly every minute of every day.
I can't remember writing this nor is it my usual style so I struggled to believe these words are my own.. but, I googled it and found nothing. So here, I would like to share this with you and gather some input on the obviously distorted ramblings from a broken heart. I truly feel every word written here, and I hope that you may find some comfort in my words xx
~Monica
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Most of the time I think how happiness probably isn't real and that delusion is what it must actually be.
Or maybe we're all just allergic to happiness, like that one kid in everyone's class who can't have lactose and OH MY GOD IT'S RAINING ICECREAM... But we can't try any.
And we've watched movies and heard about how synonymous it is with summer and fun... And we might have tasted some once, which was a bad idea, because now we know exactly what to miss.
Crushes, love, and infatuation, they are all different forms of idealization. Purity is a lie. Lies are not true, the truth is subjective. The truth is, I wanted you to know I meant it when I said I loved you.
Or is it the truth? Nothing I say may just be, and despite all the costs I want to set you free, free from who you think you ought to be to succeed and win a game which does not exist in a world where nothing simply is.
And when that nothing is meaningless, but the meaning behind everything is found in nothing... and I know that this isn't real.
I know it's a game.
I know that when I fly solo I am soaring through the skies. When I fly so low I know my soul must be high.
I fly so high.
Don't touch me. Don't burn my skin, don't rip my paper heart and bury me within your idea of what I am. What we should have been, could have been, rules printed in ink on the books we read dictating how life should be, super symmetry.
The horror within our idea that perfection exists implies that nothing is perfect, and at this point everyone needs glasses because our sense of reality is distorted, warped beyond what it was, and if nobody sees it it's not because they haven't tried, but they add details and paint with their minds.
Super symmetry.
Don't let me fly too high to the sun because my wings will melt, and I'll know all is lost, and that we are all one, one and the same, "same" being relative to how many tears we may have cried to rinse ourselves of the anger we hide.
Because bodies bob in bodies of water and I wonder if that's a way to make water cry as the reflection of the moon is all she sees in the sea while the ocean would do anything for the moon.
And when we all deserve, we all deserve justice, which just is, and hatred comes faster than a porn star with love struggling to smile for the camera as she thinks of her family. Shame is a sham, innocence can be bought for mere cents by anyone of any age because there is always something left to break and even though it makes sense it doesn't pay for treatment..
And inside we're just sad, broken on the floor, perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to call and say something. Just say something more. Convince us that maybe inside this chaos there is a ruling force, something that'd make it fair, super symmetry, make us know without any doubts that we were sincere with our sins, words would turn to ashes when everything feels drained of meaning and thought.
Because sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel belongs to a train, and I think how maybe you'd smile sadly at this point because it's all the same, and I'd say "I like trains" and you'd say "Yes you do". And I don't mention how when I think of them I think of you, and when I see train-tracks I think of how similar the scars on your arm looked in the evening light, rows of obviously frantically drawn straight lines with little control, which crossed the line.
I'd be lying if I said I don't watch you invade my thoughts more than sometimes with a cavalry of memories and the armed guards of our scarred arms. And the sentries which guard the walls around your heart, taking centuries to depart from their posts to read the post and read all about it, because written there on the lines are words and in the words is the script you paint for yourself, and the spaces between is where you can always find me peeking over to let your eyes move on, from left to right, because you left because someone thought that was right.
And directions can be confusing when your rights are my wrongs and my words speak of songs and melodies I can almost feel whispering in my ear, and the heart speaks a language we can all speak but somehow cannot hear.
And the word needle sews the lids of my eyes together long enough for me to mentally form the words "why" and "how could you" because recklessly abandoning something I know is important steals away my share of being sure about anything. Because you forgot to remember that this is important, with moments of kindness and your mothers love of your baby feet, and your brothers arms wrapping around your shoulders, and father's tears streaming down and certainly I am uncertain about you, sir, and whether you thought about anyone's feelings other than your own, and if you believe your own lies. And little tin soldiers occasionally march down your cheeks, because the words you want are not the ones you need and somewhere among those lines there is a "Please".
I think of all those people would leave different kinds of tracks, using other needles, trainspotting away their troubled pasts and get closer and closer to the light, and look for god but find religion instead.
In this way you compare and rationalize your motivations like rations of a prisoner chained by trained killers may receive and consider the opinions you have like options you'd never opt for unless you had recently been given drugs for a serious operation.
I think of how we all paint targets on our chests and do our best impersonation of an inanimate object because there is always someone we admire who loves to sling the arrows of cruelty and all we do is watch them get ready, aim, and fire. And as we watch and learn what it is to become someone's toy our minds take note of their technique and memorize the distance in between the differences of place, and we envy that satisfied looks on their faces... And then you find yourself picking up a practice arrow, bowing to the audience before taking the bow, and shooting for the bulls-eye and feeling weak at the knees because it's so wrong, but makes you feel so free. Being human means hating being, all of us having a god complex, wanting to play the main character in a play which never was.
And everyone with their piggy-bank hearts, holding their worth tight as secure, collecting petty pennies of pity which can only be shown once stolen and broken upon the pavement like a coconut.
I'd be lying if i said I didn't pray to gods that don't believe in me... that maybe I'll find you again, and kiss you, and I wonder if maybe you feel this vacancy, this haunting shallow stream of wonder and wonder about finding and kissing me too and our super symmetry.. Because that'd be sweet of you.
I think of you and your walls made from a tower of books, as you wonder if I ever understood your lies, and the things you'd make up and if I know and I want to bust in like that big-ass jug of kool-aid and say "OOHH YEAAH" because, yes, I did... and yes I miss you, and love you, and I know exactly what to miss.
