Sometimes I sit in my car in front of my apartment watching rain break across the glass. The sound is repairing. I may even get lost in it, where I wonder if people think I’m weird for not removing myself from the immediate. It’s a medication like mental floss. It helps me to un feel things that I’ve known, like removing bandages that have long adhered around bound thighs. If it takes me anywhere away from the backsliding, then I tend to lean into it more.
It’s such a dark writhing of backwards composure. It’s your brain in reverse, then forward, then reverse, then slow motion and subtitled – followed by a sinewy commentary to extrapolate any details you may have overlooked. Just to keep telling your insides that you are wrong again. It’s your own horror performance that you cannot shut off. It’s an art of self sabotage that will chip away at the very hope of you being able to reduce your guard to points where you can at least shield off the hailstorm of things replaying in your head. To find yourself grasping for an intermission, a breath, and a lightning bolt of connection that will undoubtedly sever that assembly line of garbage you are lined up to feed yourself in the moments ahead.
Just please undo, that which is done. Wipe those fingerprints away, and begin to peel it the fuck back. Bleach the stain that lingers behind the eyes that you see when you lay down for the fight at 3am. Rewrite the ending and sew underneath it a hand written note that screams “Don’t worry, I’m here – I’m not far…it’s ok”.
Repair, reprogram, rewrite. Find that better ending that you ultimately deserve, and hold on to it with everything you have. Panic, fear and anxiety – are all only temporary, and you are to drown them as furiously as you can.
“Gaff had been there, and let her live. Four years, he figured. He was wrong. Tyrell had told me Rachael was special. No termination date. I didn’t know how long we had together… Who does?” –Deckard, Blade Runner 1982