Without

 (part one) 

If you’re bleeding to death, do you cut yourself again? I’ve tried. Again and again. Until I’ve realised the futility of what I’m doing. Because killing myself isn’t the answer. It never was. I was caught in a web of indecision and frustration, and anger. Seething anger. Not at anyone, but myself. Just me. I did what I wanted to do to anyway. I drank till I couldn’t stand. Smoked till I couldn’t breathe. Killed myself in memory of you. Your perfect, perfect self. Except every drop of alcohol, and every drag of a cigarette never filed this hole in my chest where my left lung used to be and when I went overboard again and again and again I was accused of lying and failing and I thought I’d never be whole again. I called you again and again. I spoke to you more than I should have. I poured my heart out to you for the millionth time but you remain silent. I can see you smile but you no longer smile for me. I can hear you laugh but you no longer laugh for me. I can hear your voice but I can never hear you call my name the same way you used to.

It's strange how I've stopped longing for that. All of that. It's been a while, but I've forgotten how to feel the same. That doesn't stop me, and I wonder what will. You've taught me one more thing, you know? Perhaps it's the last thing you've ever taught me, but I value it over and above anything else. You've taught me that living with holes is easier than constantly trying to fill them. When I try to fill the hole you left behind I'm constantly made aware of it. I'm reminded of you and everything about you. I could talk about you for hours and hours. You've changed me, in more ways than one. So if someday when my blood's drowning in alcohol, I might call you.

I won't ask you to answer my questions, and I won't ask you to give me meaning. I won't ask to be yours and I won't ask you to remember me. I only want to ask one thing of you. One simple thing.

Forgiveness.

I might slip up sometimes. I might forget what I've come to accept and I just want to tell you, once again, whether you're listening or not. It doesn't matter that I don't exist for you. It doesn't matter to me that I don't matter to you anymore. I've come to accept that. And I've realised one fairly simple thing.

It's okay.

Maybe I'll never move on, and maybe a part of me is going to be stuck here forever, never wanting to leave my memory of you but the rest of me is trying to say goodbye. I can't get myself to. It's difficult. So much so that I begin to resent myself for even trying, but I will try. I won't try for me, I'll try for you. 

I'll try.

So tonight, while the tears continue to be shed, while the blood continues to be bled, and while words continue to be said, I'll stop. 

Good Night. 

and.

Au Creux de l'Hiver, Les Discrets

She was gone, and I did’t know how to feel about it. She was gone and he was the better man. She was gone and he deserved her more than I ever did. She was gone and I respected him so much. She was gone and I looked up to him so much. She was gone and I think she did the right thing for herself. She was gone and she did the right thing. She was gone and the realisation of her absence broke my heart. She was gone and the absoluteness of this realisation killed me. She was gone and I knew she never was coming back. She was gone and a part of me left with her. She was gone but I think she was happier going. 

To sit in the corner of a room and watch other people together is painful. Other people who have found other people that they can be happy with. To sit in the corner of a room and watch other people together is painful. Here I am, wrapped up in my solitude. My sickness. My fate. Perhaps this is what I’m destined for after all. Perhaps determinism does tell the truth. Perhaps my purpose is to give someone a moments happiness, a moment’s joy, a moment’s sadness, a moment’s compassion. Perhaps my purpose is to be momentary. Like the fleeting second. Never a first. Always a second. Always flowing, adding to a life, never having one of my own. 

Pictures, Benjamin Francis Leftwich.

You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’m sure of it. It’s also so inconsequential. I love you. More than you care to know. I’ve loved you more than you’ve ever cared to think about me. I still probably do, and I don’t know if I can stand that or not. I hate dreaming, because all I do is dream about you, and when I wake up I’m left with a longing for someone and I know that this longing will remain so for the rest of my life and I can’t live with that playing on my mind forever. What do I do? I’m out of breath, I’m out of strength. I’m losing ground. I’m losing touch with reality. I talk a lot to hide the fact that there isn’t much left of me, now that it belongs to you. If you quit on me, I vanish. I’ll disappear off the face of the earth. No, I’ll still be here, but I won’t be here. They say that you’re the physical manifestation of your thought. If that had a fragment of truth to it, I won’t exist if you leave. I go around, searching for a love I don’t want. A love that I can’t hope to ever say I deserve because it isn’t the love I need. It’s compromise, and the guilt of that kills me further. I’m trapped in this infinite loop of disgust and guilt, and perhaps you can fix all of that, but you won’t. I don’t blame you, and I never will. To me, nothing you ever do is wrong. I can live with this sadness. This emptiness, and I’d rather die before I say you’re flawed. Nothing I've ever seen is more perfect than you are. 

Don’t go? It’s only midnight.

Your Latest Trick, Dire Straits.

loving someone who doesn't love you back is injurious to health. 

Now that that's out of the way, I daydreamed for a lot of the day today. This one recurring theme is just you and me waltzing to the Dire Straits. It's 1986. We're in a small pub somewhere in London. You can smell the musk from the walls. People either passed out, or too tired to care. You and I just waltzing. There's a band playing live, and right now, they're the best music in the world. The music seeps into the air. Your perfume is intoxicating. I can smell the music in it. It's late. We're just moving. Up and down and left and right. It feels like a dream. Having someone to hold. Time slows down and everything stops. You notice. I stop feeling your breath on my neck. I can see your eyes now. We're face to face. I'm lost. Your eyes. Like a flash of colour in a black and white world. You notice. You smile. You give me a minute. You're talking. You're saying something. Your face is distracting. Your beauty isn't helpful. I try to pay attention to what you're saying. I'm not doing a good job. You start laughing. I can't help but smile.

You're sitting up, your back against a tree. My head in your lap. You're reading to me. Your words swirl and surround me. Music to my ears. You're telling me a story. I don't know what it's about, but I like where we are right now. We just are.

A long time ago, I locked myself away. Inside my mind. I began to create people, because I forgot who I was. Somewhere, somehow, you found the key. I finally began to understand who I am. I stopped creating people for the benefit of societal interaction. That was the biggest mistake I ever made. I'm certain now that nobody likes me for who I am. I'm certain that I'm going to hide behind me. Not me, me. 

No Money, Kings of Leon.

Every time I see you I think I make you hate me more. All I can do is ride this wave of self doubt and hatred. You're difficult. I want to talk to you about everything and more, but you look more like you want me to shut up.

"What's the most expensive thing you've ever come across?"

"Love."

"Care to explain? 

"It's an investment I can't afford to make"

"Oh."

You're taken, you're out of my league. You think I'm pathetic, you think I'm boring. 

I'm alone. That's my only problem. 

I don't understand my obsession with love. I think I've suffered rejection so many times I've began to crave something I don't have. It's like that word in that language about pain and sorrow for the loss of a relationship that never happened. 

Kill me already, I'm getting tired of this shit. I can't seem to get a goddamn thing right. All I can do is make mistakes. Go ahead and make one for me. 

God you're beautiful. 

Yes, I'm poor. Yes, I'm fucked up. Yes, I know you can't stand me. But I'm human. Or at least I think I am. 

What's the point of an existence where you have no control over yourself? Then again, who are you?

Yeah, I'm cocky. I'm painful. I'm ugly. I can deal with it. Maybe.

This need for familiarity. For contact. To have someone, regardless of who I am. 

Sleep used to be my best friend. It's my worst enemy today. Dreaming about someone is almost like allowing someone to control your life. I dream a lot. Every time I dream I feel this part of me missing, I'm waiting for the right person to show up. I'm afraid I'll be dead before that happens. 

All I need is a shoulder to cry on. I can feel the strain. The tension, I've had enough. I need someone to be there. I'm breaking and the only thing  holding me together is hope. And hope doesn't come easy these days. 

Have you ever wanted to kill yourself? 

Have you ever wanted to forget now warm the morning sun is? 

Have you ever wanted to forget how beautiful the evening breeze is? 

I want to. 

I have nobody to share it with. 

It feels like someone is choking me. 

"When was the last time you felt alive?"

"I don't remember."

"?"

"It's been a while."

How on earth do I get you to realise that everything you say about not liking me kills me inside. I think I talk compulsively because I need to hide what's going on inside. I want to let go already. I can't. 

I walked out of home last night. Spent hours on a bench on the road. It was pouring. I was freezing. I couldn't deal with what's going on inside me. 

Has someone ever saved your life? 

No?

That's funny. 

Why, you ask? 

You're keeping me alive.

God you're beautiful. 

We Never Change, Coldplay.

Have you ever woken up with an immense sense of sadness and guilt? It’s consuming you from the inside and all of a sudden you want to go back to sleep. The source of this torment seems to be nowhere, making you feel like it’s always been there. It breaks you. Shattered, you lie still. Wondering what happened. Wondering why you’re being subjected to this. Wondering who is responsible.

And a fragment of a dream passes by. You’re there. Holding a gun. Pointing the barrel at someone else. Who is that someone else. He lights a cigarette. The faint glow of the cigarette lighter illuminates his face. He looks familiar, but different. His eyes are full of hate, and anger. But in the midst of the hate and anger, you see a desperation. Why would someone like that be desperate? 

He speaks. His voice raspy and sore, but it’s deep and soulful. So you’re finally here, he says. You’ve finally seen me for who I am, he says. Can you do it?, he asks. Or will you fuck this up and not be able to finish what you’ve started?, he questions. Can you fucking do it?, he says. Can you hurt me like I’ve hurt everyone you loved?, he taunts.  

I shot him mid sentence. I killed a man and I felt such a rush. Then it faded. So I turned around and left. 

I feel loneliest when I’m surrounded by people. I suppose that’s why I like sitting on my own most of the time. But you know, some times, I wish you’d come and sit next to me. Maybe you’d solve this one. The way I’ve never been able to. 

Song for Mountains, Les Discrets.

Fuck you. Fuck you and your beauty. Fuck you and your perfection. Fuck you and...

Imagine sitting on the peak of a mountain. It's cold, desolate, murderous. You're stark naked save for your emotion. That's your only company. It's like a protective barrier, but it's beginning to fade. The strain of giving for so long is taking it's toll. You're only human, it's okay. You could believe those pretentious bastards and argue that giving is the only gift. Fuck me, I sound as pretentious as any one of them. You're going to get swept off this peak. You're going to fall five thousand feet and bash your skull. It's going to shatter, and it won't be a pretty sight. Think jagged rock painted red with bits of calcium here and there. Think brains and guts adorning the rocks like garlands. The violence is beautiful. It's art, not gore. For fucks sake you'd still look drop dead gorgeous with your skull bashed and your brains splattered around. What really pisses me off is the fact that you're not. Not perfect, not nothing. But I've stopped caring. You exist and that is enough.

Leaves drift in the wind, breeze blows over the meadow. It's scenic, like one of those children's books about the English countryside. Soft flute music, complemented by the wind. Distant humming. Soul searching. The one question begging to be asked. "tu kaun hai"? Who is who? Who am I? Who are you? Why are we who we are? Why am I not you? Why are you not me? The question has no answer. It's not worth looking for one. Exercises in futility don't fit the nature of this place. Eyes closed. Eyes open. Why am I here? Why do I wan't to know now? Why do I want to know at all? Can I not exist in my own insignificance? Can I not be at peace being nobody?

The answer is simple, I suppose. I don't want to.

I have a deep desire for you to know me. Maybe that's why I'm desperate. Maybe that's why I pick up my phone five times a day and put it back down six times and then hate myself for being so dependant on another human being like it's their fault or their need because I'm alone and sometimes being alone can make a person feel desperate and it's the desperation that makes me behave like this because I keep coming up with excuses to not pay attention to what I really need the most.

You.