i often feel the need to write; yet nothing gets expressed the way i want it to. the things i produce, the feelings i feel, the thoughts i think, just never come out the same. i wish i could explain, and sometimes i think i do. sometimes it feels like if i just start writing, if i write that first sentence; that starting line; then the rest will flow naturally. like it's gonna pour onto the page. speak for itself. no thinking.
something in me got triggered two weeks ago, when i found my best friend on the floor in one of the music practice rooms, sobbing, while the party was going on just footsteps away. kotch in the background and the pile of dry saliva piling up in the corners of his mouth. wrinkled shirts and breathless cries and quiet sobs and "i don't want to be here anymore" and i didn't know what to say other than "it's going to be okay. i promise".
i wish i could tell myself the same.
and then followed salty cheeks and smudged make-up and "i love you so much, please don't hurt yourself".
and then, just like how the yellow leaves darkened and crumbled; much like toast that's been in the toaster for a little too long; the late summer breeze became a frisk crisp morning frost and never wanting to get out of bed before class. things changed. just like how i could sense my surroundings changing, from the pleasant and the "i wish the weather back home would be like this in november as well" to the wearing my winter coat to breakfast and walking up to dinner in the dark; i felt myself change. it was as if the little yellow blob of happiness, the one that'd been there for so long -- longer than usual -- was suddenly sucked out of me and all that was left was... nothingness. an emptiness; void; the darkness. the one that i keep writing about but can never fully explain. maybe i don't want to, because i'm not sure anyone would understand. or maybe they would, but wrongly so. like how nothing is ever a fact but solely interpretation.
i feel myself becoming increasingly submissive. there are many things i want to say but they never seem to find their way out of my mind, and whenever they do, i feel so stupid. i'm scared of judgement and i'm scared of asking questions. i'm scared because asking means i don't understand. it means i don't have control. it means i'm not independent. and what do i really hate more than not being able to do things on my own?
i always used to joke around and say that i had plants because they were measurements of how well i was taking care of myself. "if my plants are healthy; so am i", i'd say.
my plants are dying.
lately everything has seemed to spiral down into a deep dark well, just like the well murakami writes about in norwegian wood. "nothing but a hole, a wide-open mouth [...] deep beyond measuring, and crammed with darkness."
i think a lot about the summer boy. about joking around but also about talking, about real things. things that seem important in life. things that seem to matter. maybe they don't. in retrospect they probably didn't back then either. i rememeber skipping barefoot around the rocks by the river and knocking on doors and leaning my head against his shoulder on bus rides back to campus. and then his condescending look as he would turn around form where he sat by his desk head buried in books when i would sit in his bed trying to start conversation. and then waking up in silence and sitting at seperate tables at brunch. maybe alex turner was right. the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day.
the things he said about me still echo from within. "why are you so superficial?" "why do you care so much about arbitrary things?". like playing on repeat. over and over again. if my life was a movie the scene would be me lying in my bed and his voice getting increasingly louder, a zoom in on my face and his voice expanding over the screen. repeating itself gaining other voices (although his as well) just like recording and play-backing, over and over again. the scene would end with only a shot of my closed eyes. and i would open them as if i'd just realized something. although in reality, i've realized nothing. nothing else than that the summer boy destroyed me from within. never have i felt more insecure. i'm in a perpetual state of self-doubt.
sometimes i look at him and my entire body aches from hate. he's a prick. acts as if i was never part of his life, like he's superior and smarter than everyone else. sometimes i look at him and i hate him with all my heart.
other times i look at him and i find myself not being able to let go. trying to let out the most normal and indifferent "hey" when we pass each other on campus grounds. like i'm trying to project that i don't care either. that i'm equally cool. that i'm completely detached as well. sometimes i look at him and i feel myself burning with jealousy. because he moved on so easily. because i know that nothing i ever said stayed with him. nothing i ever said echoed within him months afterwards. because sometimes it feels like i'm still stuck. like i'm still yearning; hungry for confirmation.
which brings me to wrinkled bed sheets and forehead kisses and napping through free codes. tangled legs and morning kisses. the pair of symmetrical birthmarks; one on each side of the neck. on the first lazy day we spent together, i drew a mouth that made them look like a happy smiley face. today i circle them with my fingertip, over and over again. i never seem to get the perfect imaginary circle. i give up.
"i don't think i can do this anymore"
"i thought so too"
and then, fighting tears, like how i've seemed to have fought them for the past couple of weeks. i trace the side of his face with my finger tips. can feel how my fingers are trembling. not sure if it's because of caffeine or because i'm scared or because i'm on the verge of breakdown. maybe all three. huge chunk of sadness in my throat. i want to swallow it down but i can't. the feeling won't disappear. i crawl into his arms and close my eyes. let them create little dimples of water. he smells different than usual. it reminds me of when i ended things with a boy back home, two years ago. reminds me of how remarkably similar they are. dorky and political (both conservative, too). super smart and debate-y and awkward and talkative. how he, just like today, smelled different than usual, two years ago. and how today was based around a conversation where i heard that i was remarkably similar to his ex as well. life works in weird ways sometimes.
it's weird how it all started; practising british accents in chum dayroom. and then it was introducing wes anderson. and that whole day after taking the sat subject tests that we spent in my bed, talking. and then his sleepy breaths in my hair at night and the little smile and then the "hi there" he always lets out when i turn around and kiss him in the morning.
and then, laying in his bed and playing call of duty. zombies. just like how i used to play with klanen. it makes me miss them so much. i tell him everything that me and them used to do; how we would stay in the first room for the three first levels, controlling two spawn spots each, and how we would deal with the stairs and the blue room and the bottom level and the hell hounds and everything. i love playing zombies. it takes my mind off other things. when i break down in his arms for the first time, i cry until he suggests we kill some zombies. i skip chinese that day.
and then, feelings. he says it's hard not to have them. he tells me he really likes me and then the shower of compliments; suddenly i’m beautiful, sexy, smart, funny, brilliant, amazing… today he told me i’m a child prodigy at life. his comments make me smile, but they also make me scared, because they’re not true. they’re just not true. this is not who i am. i am not beautiful nor funny nor sexy. i’m not brilliant in any way. it makes me scared because every time he says something like that i think he’s lying. i don’t know if he is. it feels like it.
and then, his dark green t-shirt and small dimples of tears and ”i got you" he says over and over again. ”i’m so sorry” i tell him and every time he let’s out a little laugh and says ”don’t be sorry! what are you sorry for?!” and hugs me a little tighter. i like him. a lot. i feel awful. ”there’s something wrong with me” i tell him. ”i’m fucked up”. ”you’re only human” he says. ”this is what i meant when i said that i was scared you like someone that doesn’t exist” i tell him. ”i still think you’re pretty spectacular.”
and then, this.