I have written this in my head for weeks. I delete it from my mouth over and over daily, and it still screeches across the chalk board and wakes me in my sleep. Its damage, its poison, it is a dragging of nails across a wall of sand paper. To think that two years ago, nearly to the hour and minute, I was flush with something that was so new, a vital breath I had not seen in fourteen fucking hailing years. And to the exact year and nearly hour later, I was swimming in a fire and a boil that I still relive every fucking day. Thirty-two years of reeling over and over with the pummeling, the showers, the unnerving stare of faces that have the devouring mask and the utter will to glance and lie in a faceless, operatic, act of desperation. The sad facsimile of your own narrative leaves piles and piles of unrepairable damage in its path. How do you, how does anyone sleep and then paint your face in a mirror every fucking day without pulling needles out of your throat. I’ve dreaded today for months and yet it laughs as it chokes me in my blanketed room. You lived your life in disbelief as your past whittled your self-esteem into nothingness, and then as you stared at me, I offered over and over the blooms of understanding. Only to feel punished and bare as they sent me stacks of all the blatant displays of failure. The photos, text messages, many I never shared. It makes me sick and anemic from everything that I felt. For what, so that you can lay there and stare at your phone in silence. Ignore it. Cover up in the flattering faltered sparklers of that place. Just to fall into a circle of badgering and manipulative behavior of every tile that covers that toxic belittling satire of a place.
It’s ruin. It’s a battery of taste.
For the last fourteen years, no one has ever said “hey, I am really sorry for lying. I am sorry for how I behaved.”
We’re not perfect. But we all need to own everything we do.
Some never do. Some never will. And I grow tired of letting that split walls in my life.
“It matters not to Kelvin whether his wife’s doppelgänger, who committed suicide 10 years earlier, is real or not. Whether she is a simulacrum, a manifestation of a decade’s worth of grief-stricken memories, or a celestial hallucination, to Kelvin she is real. He can hold her, speak to her, and so he alone gives licence to her existence. Tarkovsky extends this idea to all our relationships, past and present, and asks us whether they really exist at all. Do we love the people around us, or simply how we perceive them? Is it the idea of them that sustains them, gives them life? How much do we really know about someone, save for our own mental colouring of their character?” – Little White Lies, Why Solaris is the greatest science fiction film ever made