Sky's The Limit
I'm trying to keep these responsibilities going.
Today, I guess, is just a slow down and don't die day. So, you know...
On the front, I don't know. I think about the past a lot. Sometimes I'd rather be interested in a future that had no connections to the past, but I don't know how to do that. I have really useless hopes because I believe in people. Hell, I'm still hopeful about what might happen with the thing, the girl, the...disaster. And I should know that is just bilge and shit and pain to try and dress that up in hope.
30 days. Hmm.
I remember feelings, faces, and it's as if there would be a way to go back and do better. I don't even know what I would do differently. If a more mature self would be able to come across as more mature. I don't know why I care what high schoolers did or didn't think. Or what people long since moved away and dating other people think. Probably, you'd say, Cindy C., because they're the only ones you can think of. And then I punch you right in the mole, Cindy. I don't care about the truth, I want to etch her face out. Not with acid, I'm not like that, but if I could just wish her away. I wanted for there to be madness. Madness on their part being an explanation for my loneliness.
I'd love to know that there was a monastery, somewhere in the Flatirons, just nestled there, where shortly after graduation, he ran off. For him, time stopped.
Oh, god, of course it didn't. It went on and there was happiness and sadness between here and there and I wasn't a part of any of it. And won't be. Yet, even saying the words doesn't stop the wishing. Wishing I can stub out one life for the sake of another. I couldn't hate her. I can't hate anyone.
I feel like everything has this pull and repulsion, close enough to see, far enough to be out of reach. Tantalus, I'm always praying to your patience, to your renewal, the way you can't help yourself but hope that this time it won't be torture, it'll be heaven or release or just something fucking new beating down on you.
I'm working on it. I never thought that this would be my question. This'd be my hangup, because it seems to be so much of the world's. I thought I'd understand myself enough to stop drooling and dawdling and be cool with what happened. I mean, I was there. I didn't do anything about anything. I didn't have any comprehension that there was something to do but pine and stare. I thought that I didn't have any fucking options as far as all that went. Honestly. I believed and believe so little in myself that where there were openings, little crevices of light, I saw nooses and disaster. I saw calamity and exposure. There was nothing to expose, but I have no faith that something couldn't be found that would shame me.
I really want to know why I think like this. Because I think I do think like this, at some lower, unconscious level. And how do you answer for fucking yourself up like that? How do you say, okay, you're pretty and swell when you have no history to justify that because you've decided that anything said in that direction related to you is a lie someone's telling to hurt you. Which makes it seem like people are complimenting you all the time and you are just skewing the meaning. But they're not. They're not saying anything at all. They're meeting people and riding on subways and taking their pictures and moving across the country and smiling and walking past and that's...that.
Wow. I didn't...I don't. If I erase all that, what am I saying?
I didn't think I was still so raw about all this? I was having a good, unimportant day.
They weren't Adonises. They had pimples. They couldn't spell. They didn't like my kind of music. They like girls I hated.
But...they didn't, they didn't do anything wrong. Two ships passing. Why do I make their loveliness punishment? If it was torture, it was joyful, it was bidden and asked for. They were strange days. Long lashes and backwards names. I don't want to dismember them, disremember them, hate what affixed them in my heart to begin with. I just miss them and how pure they were, it was. How safe it was to believe we could be in love if we ever just spoke for more than a few minutes.
There's got to be a way out of this mire. There's got to be an adult way to handle this. A highway. An epiphany. The diurnal path toward death. Hope? I wish you were already here. I believe you're both weapon and shield.
