cardinal points
Sometimes I look at you and I’m disgusted.
But sometimes I look at you and I’m so unwillingly captivated, caught in your light like nothing had ever happened to extinguish it.
And then, after a few moments, the amnesia fades and I recall you snuffing out the candle long, long ago.
It must have been a pretty forceful blast to send me forever rotating between these two extremes.
But I already knew that. And I was told to always attempt to avoid stating the obvious.
How is that another person’s happiness can make you so enraged, so wounded, so shameful, and so full of the most horrific self-loathing and disgust at the fact that you are static?
Things were getting better for me, and now they have screeched to a halt once more. Days meld together; the sun rises, and sets just as quickly, but not before I look around and realize I have done absolutely nothing of consequence and nothing that even remotely matters to anyone in the stretch of time when the sun has been up, but not for lack of trying, and all of a sudden another grain of sand has slipped through my fingers and I inch closer and closer to an end that I have no idea what to expect from.
It all just seems to be reminder after reminder after reminder that I do not matter at all. “I am unfinished; I am diminished.” The world is big. The sky is full of stars; the trees are full of birds. I am full of something, and no one is full of me, or of thoughts of me, or of questions for me.
I was not worth changing for. I never was; I was never intended to be. And perhaps it was the fault of my naivete; perhaps it was, in the end, my own fault. My own fault that I did not know was a fault, or a fault line — a place of contention and disagreement.
I got kicked off the bus in the middle of nowhere, without a map, without a plan, and without a suitcase, but with plenty of baggage. It is dusty here, and it is blindingly bland, and it is painfully clear that I am trapped. You kept on until the next stop — luckily for you, it sounds like the next stop was the most magnificent of cities.
There’s no wealth inside I can turn to to escape. There’s just me, here, in this desert. And while you are thinking to yourself how lucky you are to feel the urban ground beneath your feet, solid and sure, I am running my brain in circles trying to figure out who to send a telegram to — an SOS; a postcard to say “wish you were here and wish I wasn’t.”
And, yes. This is just another stream of effortless bullshit that flows forth from the reservoir underground. It is not an oasis.
I was told recently to “never make someone a priority in your life who makes you an option in theirs.”
Okay. Fine. But what if the someone is continuously reminding you that you’re not even an option?
Not suggesting anyone here is being malicious. Maliciousness is not a possibility, because I have no meaning in this situation. Which is the way it fucking should be for both parties involved. Why am I making this so difficult? I DON’T WANT IN. So why is wanting out — all out, for fuck’s sake — consisting of only feeling so damn awful?
I don’t want to make you my priority. I don’t want to be your priority. I don’t even want to be your option. But, most of all, I don’t want anyone to be your priority. Or your option.
I selfishly want you to be as alone as I am. I want nothing from you; I want you to be nothing to me. I want you to disappear. I want you to have never happened. I want the happy parts of us to be pinned on to the memory of someone else who is gone now, but who left in a different way than you did. I don’t want to be this damaged.
I don’t want to be this sad.
And I don’t really want anyone else to tell me that only I have the power to make it better. Only you can cure yourself. Only you can prevent wildfires. How much of this is really in my control, though? I’ve done everything I can, but I can’t keep your mom from calling my house. I can’t tell our parents not to be friends. I can’t ask anyone to make a choice, and I don’t want to. That is wrong. I cannot eliminate you. I can take some meaning off of you, but I guess I don’t know how.
Objectivity. That’s what I’m working towards, I suppose.
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katyofcamelot posted this
