I’M NOT SURE WHAT TO TITLE THIS

This is unlike anything I have ever written before. This is not going to be me talking about an experience, this isn’t going to be me explaining to you how tragic my life is or how strong I am for getting through it anyway. This is an apology, an acceptance, an ode to my sadness and to the love of my life. 
 I am sorry. I have a tendency to write to people I owe apologies to.
I’ve been stalling writing this because I wasn’t sure I was ready to understand. But now? I am.

I am ready to accept, to understand and then manifest in myself the changes it brings into my life.
I am sorry. Yet again, I don’t think I have ever neglected anything as much as I have neglected you.
You have tried to comfort me, to show me what needs fixing and show me just how soft I can be. After a whole lifetime of living inside of a shell and starting to turn into it- you taught me that I am so incredibly capable of breaking out of it. You have helped me grow, you have taught me kindness, softness, a gentle ruthlessness that has pulled me in and out of the kind of realisations people have just before they are dying. You have been so important, and I am so incredibly apologetic about refusing to see you for what you have been.
There’s a quote in one of my favourite movies- I couldn’t see you when you were here, and now that you are gone, I see you everywhere.
It is unfair on my part to say that I miss you, I have fought so hard to have you leave. But it is even more unfair to not thank you for your stay- thank you for all that you’ve brought to my life, for all the memories I will hold so close to my heart for the simple reason that I couldn’t imagine having them.
I melt at the mere sight of your face because I haven’t known comfort like this before. A place so homely, you hold yourself down to it no matter how toxic you might make it for yourself.

I am listening to you. I have heard you, and I am grateful for having you around while I did.  

Whatever love we have had was maybe only meant to last us as long as it took me to understand that I am enough and always have been. They say stretching out the sadness is like watering a dead flower, and I am thankful about how wise you are, enough to know when to crawl back into whatever shell it is you popped out of.

I love you immensely, and if you come around again- I will be more gentle.

I will listen, I will accept and I will feel you completely.

I owe you that, and I will give it to you happily. Goodbye.

Love, 

Me. 
 

You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

Don’t die without any scars.

This is your life and its ending one moment at a time.

You are not your job, you’re not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive or the phone you have. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis or the Armani suit.

You’re not the concealer you use or the lip color you wear and the highlighter you use.
You are not special. You’re not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

We’re all part of the same compost heap. We’re all singing, all dancing crap of the world.

“At the time, my life just seemed too complete, and maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.”

“Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything.

Nothing is static, everything is evolving, everything is falling apart.”

“Warning: If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life.

Don’t you have other things to do?

Is your life so empty that you honestly can’t think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it? Do you read everything you’re supposed to read? Do you think everything you’re supposed to think? Buy what you’re told to want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you’re alive. If you don’t claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned.”

“If you don’t know what you want,” the doorman said, “you end up with a lot you don’t.”

“I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.”
Didn’t I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?
Can’t I see how we’re all manifestations of love?
AND HENCE, I repeat again,
We are not special.
We are not crap or trash, either.
We just are.
We just are, the same decaying matter as everything else..
and what happens just happens.
And God says, “No, that’s not right.”
Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can’t teach God anything.”

“The lower you fall, the higher you’ll fly.”

“You buy furniture. You tell yourself, this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life. Buy the sofa, then for a couple years you’re satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you’ve got your sofa issue handled. Then the right set of dishes. Then the perfect bed. The drapes. The rug. Then you’re trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.”

“Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer, maybe self-destruction is the answer.” YOU GET THAT?

“Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need.”

“I wanted to destroy everything beautiful I’d never have.”

-THE FIGHT CLUB

Dear diary,

I’m sorry I’m writing to you again. I knew I promised I’d grow out of it and i promised I’d talk to people but I somehow can’t get myself to. My heart is beating so fast. Something’s gone very wrong with me this time, and it’s all my fault. Like always, I feel alone again. But it’s different this time. Someone could cut me open and enter my skin and I’d feel distant. They could pour themselves into my heart and I’d still feel unloved. They could paint my brain with happiness and I’d still find a way to be gloomy. Is this normal? Sometimes I feel like I live my life in third person. Everything I do is so strange and unfamiliar to me. It’s like I’m watching myself from someone else’s eyes, and their vision is monochrome filtered. How do I stop this? I recite my deepest most vulnerable thoughts to myself in the shower and forget them by the time I’m in my clothes. It breaks my heart to know that there are sentences I’ve said I’ll only ever hear once in my life. I’m starting to feel like the background character in my own story, I’m not too sure I like that. How do I stop this? Some days I can feel my heart sinking to my stomach, it’s happening right now too. My lungs feel rusted. My head feels worn out and my skin feels foreign. I don’t know how long it is till my third person story of a life starts to feel mine. I just hope that when it does, it’s nicer than it looks like from the outside.

Love,

Me