pardonne-moi pour tes insomnies à répétitions


it has been eighty days since we have moved out and moved in together. we have grown stronger. I am learning how to convey my thoughts; I am learning how to speak to him without creating confusion and cracks. sometimes relationships seem more difficult than they need to be. one night I was left alone at the roadside bar, mostly by choice, but mostly because the other person was intoxicated into oblivion. it was time to be left, and to leave. I called him on the phone to come pick me up. the phone startled him and for the time first time ever since I’ve known him, I waited for him the shortest time imaginable. he held me on the way home, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t muster the words in my mouth, they were too bitter to swallow, too sharp to pronounce. I kept quiet, curled up on the sofa with him at my feet. decisions were made and it scared me. because it is terrifying. mortifying, in the good way. it takes a lot of strength to take a leap, to jump.

I collected the silence around us until it was thick. it hurt to laugh, to breathe, to exist. the pieces scattered around loudly, but those were the last. there is no more of me left to break. I had never imagined such estrangement to be even possible, but now it is reality. now it’s time for cleaning up, destroying, screaming. to feel the energy move within me; slowly, the way blood moves around the bloodstream with each beat of the heart. a huge heart, heavy, too. there are two distinguishing types of pain: the raw pain, the one you feel immediately. an instant, the second it happens. the second type, which is much worse, is the accumulated pain of old wounds. wounds, which keep getting ripped up and opened and teared apart every once in a while, when you’ve fooled yourself that you have forgotten. and then again. it disturbs the flow, the pain. I move through crowds as if I am invisible. fragile and weak, afraid of everything. other days, I could kick and scream and throw punches. when I wake up, I never know which day it is going to be.

to be so disgustingly in love and absolutely shamelessly ignorant of the society is bliss. truly, it is bliss. because then everything happens according to no plan, which is the best plan. consumerism does not interest me. poetry is missing from my life, but fortunately, I don’t replace it with intoxication anymore. now it is the extreme opposite, of hiding away, in the world of television and literature, sleeping in a sedated slumber next to him, only to repeat the process the next day. routine is the killer, merciless and cold, drying out the last of bits of content life.

May 8, 2014