I guess it’s always going to be a battle, nothing is ever going to come in nature so sensibly easy as things that can arrive in your head. It means nothing to most but yet even the smallest detail can keep me awake at night. It’s those nights that I can imagine the ceiling getting closer to my face by the minute – and I think to myself if everything came crashing down on top of me while I slept, would any of it have ever mattered.
I wrote many things across the sky, I made my outline of life as high up as I could see. I’ve run my fingers across the wires that tie me to the walls of the confining stories that I tell. I picture the end as if walking through a fire that I could never feel, but would always know that damage that it would do. The spiderweb cracks have splintered sideways, and up, and down. The frailty that comes as your finger presses though the bending, broken glass that was always behind me – kind of just standing there. Waiting.
And it all ties me to the end of the day. When I look around, and ask myself “did I do the best that I could today?” or did I bandage up the things that peel out from under the edges. It’s those things that are like script across your face. The things that I see as clear as day, behind the eyes.
This season was always the dullest for me. I remember the sunshine across the window screen, and the air blowing the curtains alongside my chin as I heartedly tried to figure out what in my mind was going to happen next. Like I was trying to read the cards, and navigate from what I knew was coming, and what was already there from the pins and needles that I pulled out of my eyes. I slid down the walls with my fingertips, and felt the crumbling pieces give below my nails. And I stood there with pictures all over the floor, strewn about, staring back at me – telling me that it was time to excise grudgingly all that I had left clinging to me.
And so I did. I shackled all that was left behind me to my wrists and crawled as far as I could. And I laid there in a shadowy box staring again at the ceiling while I painted the walls in all of the colors that I was not familiar with. It’s those designs that I have to use as a shield to keep myself under everything. Life is much less complicated with your back against the wall, there for you to see everything in waves coming at you. At least you know what to expect, and can feel the stones upon every part of your flesh at once. As they were a shower that you can close your eyes more easily and wince away from.
But I’d rather walk backwards to the edge of the fall. Blindly. Taking each step in as if it were the last. As trust really is nothing until it catches you. And I take each step thinking that when the time comes, and the footing eventually falls – that it means more to me to have screamed the loudest, while painting the grandest picture of what I saw, in all it’s imperfection that it was. But it’s all that I saw. And how I saw the things I adored through pin hole camera eyes. With every shade of confidence that was there, even when everything frantically nailed to the sides of my confines slipped and fell. As it always does.
Theodore Twombly: I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved you.
Samantha: Me too. Now we know how. -HER, 2014