“I’ve tried leaving my heart free to wander, but everytime…every single time…it always comes back…to you.”

I wanted us to be happy, but I also had an unhealthy definition of happiness. I thought of everything we were, and made it into everything you were. I did things that might make you smile, wrote poems that would light up your eyes. I was content to make your happiness my happiness.

But that just showed how little I understood about life, love, and friendship . You loved me, I know you did, so what would happen to you if you continued to see me giving up my everything just for you? I know you wanted to shower me in love, but I didn’t give you a chance. That affection turned into addiction, and nothing I did was ever done with myself in mind. That’s unhealthy, and of course this made you unhappy. But I couldn’t stop. I should have stopped, and the rational part of my brain was probably screaming at me to stop.

But I was gone.

I turned my love into conditioning, and before I knew it the only thing I could offer to you were the things you already wanted. I couldn’t grow with you, which meant my love couldn’t grow, our love couldn’t grow. Loving somebody is complicated at times, but at its core love is about sharing. I didn’t want to share anything with you, I wanted to smother you in my twisted fantasy. I wanted you to ask me for more and more, until things came full circle and I was demanding that you demand more from me.

Today I found myself thinking about you, and about where you might be. Than I thought about myself and where I’m at right now. I have no idea how I got to this point. How many mistakes have I made in the past 5 years? And how many of those mistakes were done with the intention of sabotaging my chance at happiness? But more pressing than my trip down memory lane is the immediate question:

“Am I happy now?”

Well, I’m happier today than I was yesterday. I think my weekend was a tad bit happier than yesterday, and I know that 2 weeks ago I was so unhappy that I wound up in the mental health ward of my local hospital after my boss called 911, worried about the last text I sent. It included my resignation and reason for quitting, which was something along the lines of “I don’t deserve to be paid for the shit work I do. I’m not the right person for this role and I don’t want to hold you back. You don’t need to cut my last paycheck, just think of it as a fine for being that asshole would can’t even put in a proper 2 week notice.”

This November has been noticeably worse than last years, which was just a tab bit worse than the year before that. I don’t remember November from 4 years ago, but I also can’t imagine things ever being good. I know things must have been good…at some point I must have been happy…right?

“Am I happy now?”

I’m…alive? I am working again, and I am writing again. And that writing has lead to me making some submissions for publication. Alas, I was submitting poems, essays and short stories to various journals, magazines and contests, only to be rejected 99 times out of 100

I’m not sure if I’m happy right now. If I had to give it a score, I’d say my life reflects my recent submissions for publication; 99% of the time I know my life is garbage, because I’m a fucking landfill of a human. But there’s still one, one tiny reason to hope. I wouldn’t call it happiness, but I’m out of options, and who knows? Maybe when you’re as empty as me, it’s better to make a bet on a slim hope rather than trying to stretch out that last, decaying piece of happiness to last me the rest of my life.

I’m walking around without a destination in mind. I used to think that was a waste of my time, but now I know that I don’t need to have a specific goal so long as I keep moving forward.

I think I enjoy the night

Because it feels like

The beginning of the end.

I can use that darkness

To find myself again.

In the morning, it’s as if

The broken bits of me

Have become presentable,

Even taking on the form

Of avant garde art;

A patched up soul,

Center stitched heart,

All held together

By a long forgotten truth;

It’s okay if I make mistakes,

And even though it hurts,

I can still believe

That I deserve love.

I have been spending my vacation reading through posts on Wordpress, and I just want to say thank you to every author on this site. You are all amazing.

Maybe you’re right, maybe I’ll never amount to anything. I might spend my entire life writing these poems and essays and novels and never get a single one published. It’s likely that the only people who will ever read my words are people who follow my tiny blog. I’ll never get paid for writing, and I’ll never get famous. My parents may never respect my dream of being an author, and my friends may ridicule me for wasting my weekends storyboarding the next chapter of the book I’ll never, ever finish instead of spending some time in the Sun. I might even look back and regret ever starting down this path of winding words, but that doesn’t matter. I want to be a writer. I want to put my soul into something, because I’ve been inspired by those who have written before me. Every book, every poem or screenplay or short story I have ever read lives inside of me. I can feel the passion coming from every sentence, and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, to read the soul of another person. I want to give my fair share to the world, and not because I feel I owe this world anything. I want to give myself away on these pages because it’s what I want to do; I just want to pour my heart out in the best way that I can, and that means pen to paper, keystrokes to LCD monitor, fancy Eagle feather quill to authentic, hand crafted, medieval scrolls!

I let you tapper my dream of writing until the only thing left was a point so fine it would break the second I tried to put any weight into my words. I let you whittle me away, and that was my mistake. I paid for it…I’m still paying for it, every day, BUT, I also didn’t give you everything. Brittle though it may be, I still have my own pen, so I can write my own story. It might not last very long, but so long as I still have it, I won’t give up. I’m going to keep going, until I can’t go any further. Even if I go nowhere with my writing, I’m still going to write, and I’m going to share it to my blog, and I’m going to fill journal after journal with every story that pops into my head.

So maybe you’re right, but maybe you’re also 100% wrong. I have already amounted to something. It might be a small something in a niche corner of the literary world, but I am something, and nobody can take that away.

“I can’t stop shaking, and I can’t change. I’m setting myself up with every chance at success, knowing full well I’m going to fuck it up.”

I’m not doing anything that should warrant such an extremely negative reaction from myself. I’m eating a sandwich while I finish up some work, but that last bite…it’s hard to explain, but that bite made me feel so hollow, that it was all I could do to keep myself from crying. I took that bite, and immediately dropped the sandwich and just started shaking. I couldn’t chew, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t do a damn thing. I felt so small, yet so bloated. I wanted to disappear, but wanted someone to notice me, to tell me I’d be okay. I wanted somebody to remind me that eating a sandwich is a normal thing, and it shouldn’t cause a mental breakdown. But everything causes a mental breakdown now…I haven’t gone a single day without breaking…and I’m tired…

My body is tired. My back is screaming at me to get up and do something, even if that something is jumping off a bridge. My hands and face and mouth are all dried up, unsightly, scaly things. I’m sure my reflection is haunting, or at least a consistent visitor to every sort of nightmare the human mind can concoct, but I wouldn’t know for sure, because I avoid mirrors and glass windows and still bodies of water, knowing that if I saw whatever it is I have become, I’d do anything I could to destroy that monster…I’m so tired of being the monster…for once, I wish I could just be the hero.

I’d valiantly strike any mirror with my fist and enjoy watching a kaleidoscope of my own blood run across the now serrated surface.

I’d bravely shatter any glass windows, gathering the broken pieces into a nice, sharp pile, and roll around in that bed of crystal needles in a stupid, childish attempt to cut my way through this terribly uncomfortable skin.

And I’d heroically smother any image presented by a calm waters surface, forcing it under in a wave of self-righteous rage, inflated fear, and layer upon layer of bravado to mask my doubts…I’d drowned anything shown in that waters reflection, even if it means spending the rest of my forever at the bottom of an empty Sea.

I’m not doing anything that should warrant how much I hate myself, but I’ve come to view my very existence as a crime, a blight on society. I am a monster, and the only acceptable kind of monster is a dead monster. I don’t want to be a monster, and I wish I could know what it’s like to be the hero, so really I’m just killing two birds with one stone, but in this case, those birds are just me and my reflection. I just have to take that stone, grind out a nice, sharp edge, slide that makeshift dagger across my throat, and watch as that monster in the mirror gets exactly what it deserves…and I can go out with a smile in my heart, knowing I finally did something good for the world; I finally became a hero…

“Pain is unavoidable, and sooner or later everyone reaches a breaking point. It’s okay that you’re broken, because being broken means you can be fixed.”

I am drawn to you,

Like starlight to black nights,

Or else the rough sea

To a sailors dreams.

If I am to continue,

My darling, I do so

From your spark

It has ignited the tinder,

Shaved from my chest,

Giving rise to a heat,

A roaring light.

You’ve gifted me the Sun,

And with it a simple hope,

That even though I am alone

I can find my own way home.

I wanted to give you the love I thought you deserved, and everything else…I figured that was the price I had to pay… for thinking I also deserved my love…

We thought we were floating

Amongst the clouds,

But when our fingers

Began to sink into

Their white underbellies,

We understood.

 

The air was smoke,

Born from a warmth

We mistook as the sun.

It was just another fire,

Another wasted

Spark of romance.

 

It turns out love

Can feel an awful lot

Like burning alive.