Sunday, January 11, 2009

left behind

Can anyone look at me, really, just look at me, and not be disappointed. See me, and themselves for that matter, for who we REALLY are?

Is all love based on delusion? It is. That’s my theory for the moment anyway. It’s a hoax. A feeling of paranoia. Ehhh, not so much in your view anyway. But in mine, certainly. A fantasy. In more ways than one.

Please. Please keep me safe. Please pleasure me. Please take me where my body wants to go. Needs to go. Perhaps even, please love me?

Confused. Used. Broken. Abused.

So over that shit. Don’t call. Don’t text. DON’T GIVE IN.

You stress me out. You wear me out. I’m hollow.

Forgotten pages. Left behind. The stories of our lives.

Leave me to mine.

Funny how in these stories we call our lives, the characters never seem to be on the same page.

The reality: we are often not even in the same book.

It’s the consciousness of that conclusion that crushes a soul.

1 comment:

Aren O. Týr said...

Beautifully written - especially the final lines.

It isn't really a consolation, but know at least that there is one person on the opposite side of the planet who identifies with exactly what you're saying.

Perhaps this is where films/books and real mundane life most deviate: those longed for moments of authentic real communication, those heart rending, tentative steps towards an understanding... so rarely happen in real life.

And in the end, perhaps people simply give up, become pragmatic and sensible, and just end up being with someone with whom it merely works, almost as an act of resignation.

Yet I don't believe the authenticity is some completely romantic notion: it does and can exist, else it would not form the inspiration for all such works of art.

It is just such a rarity, so whatever you do, cherish it when and if it does ever arrive...

In the meantime, we have just a small vestige of hope to keep us going.