there are just moments when you just cry for no apparent reason. you couldn’t tell where it was coming from or why you are on that state. it just comes. the silence cradling you in stillness. the space hugging the void in, seeking protection. you don’t know whether to laugh at yourself or to cry even more. you can’t tell if you’re happy being alone or you just want the alone-ness to take pity on you.
All I hear are noises
not really making any sense
being used to it
i’m used to it,
but never comfortable,
never really been at ease
there’s just waiting
– for something significant
for something outstanding
for something worth looking forward to
the hypocrisy is more defining
than the smiles they so pretentiously present
i could only speak in hallow volumes
on a damned congruence
to everything flattering
I’d rather take the isolated road
and linger whilst I’m there
taking refuge in the alone-ness,
caring less for what might be there,
of what might be there
of what might be waiting..
and it is
Do you ever get that feeling where you don’t want to talk to anybody? You don’t want to smile and you don’t want to fake being happy but at the same time you don’t know exactly what’s wrong either, there isn’t a way to explain it to someone who doesn’t already understand. If you could want anything in the world, it would be to be alone. People have stopped being comforting and being alone never was. At least when you’re alone no one constantly asks you what’s wrong and there isnt anyone who won’t take ‘I don’t know’ for an answer. You feel the way you do just because. You hope the feeling will pass soon and that you will be able to be yourself again, but until then all you can do is wait.
I was doing it again. That lying in bed in a fetal position. Trying to calm myself. Trying to fight off the tears. Trying to not think. All of which turned out to be futile attempts.
And I surrendered to what was inevitable anyway. Belonging to the darkness. Letting that anxiety control me. Cried. Burdened myself with thoughts. I was weak. Defenseless.
Yet, how ironic it is to find myself haggling with the loneliness to one mere touch from you. Even if it means accepting what hurts me most, letting go of you. And this is not the ending I wanted it to be.
It’s in the denial that defined what’s between us. Or what was us. I can no longer distinguish what was or what is.
And it’s frustrating. Because I am still hopeful for a fairy tale. Waiting for us. For you. Settling for an abstract ending. It’s in the uncertainty of having you that’s killing what little is left.
I can be strong. I know. It’s just. It’s not that time yet.
Eventhough you’ve given up.
Then I return to the cycle again. Fetal position. Lying in bed. Fighting off the tears. Unthinking.
I feel like I have just been shot. I feel like I’ve been curbstomped. To my left, next to my keys, is my heart. It let out a few last beats even after it was put there. Oh, no tears will be shed. That bodily function is currently out of service. It never fails to amaze me how one can fall so far from up so high. And so comes the cynic’s philosophy. If you get too excited you will be that much more disappointed.
I close my eyes and I let my body shut itself down and I let my mind wander. It wanders to a familiar place. A place I don’t talk about or acknowledge exists. A place where there is only me. A place that I hate. I am alone. Alone here and alone in the world. Alone in my heart and alone in my mind. Alone everywhere, all the time, for as long as I can remember. Alone with my family, alone with my friends, alone in a room full of people. Alone when I wake, alone through each awful day, alone when I finally meet the blackness. I am alone in my horror. Alone in my horror. I don’t want to be alone. I have never wanted to be alone. I fucking hate it. I hate that I have no one to talk to, I hate that I have no one to call, I hate that I have no one to hold my hand, hug me, tell me everything is going to be all right. I hate that I have no one to share my hopes and my dreams with, I hate that I no longer have any hopes or dreams, I hate that I have no one to tell me to hold on, that I can find them again. I hate that when I scream, and I scream bloody murder, that I am screaming into emptiness. I hate that there is no one to hear my scream and that there is no one to help me learn how to stop screaming.