It’s brutal to be stuck where I am. I am a mass of contradiction. To be stuck in this ebb, and still feel the pressure building, building with no outlet, no release - no valve to cut it off. I am cold, but turbulent. I know at any moment it could break, and I want it too, to find my own way out of this tunnel in my head. It is the first rush that keeps it back, keeps the walls containing it to grow higher and higher until the water is so far above my head, that I look at the dying sunlight like a drowning person sinking further into the murk.
I want it to end. I want the explosion that will come even as I fear what this tide will bring. I’ll take the neutrality - the constant back and forth if only I could avoid the surge that precedes it.
No outlet. I look for what I’ve forsaken, cursing myself as I do for being weak. I need the sharp edge, wish it could be wielded by someone I didn’t have to worry about hurting. It is a restlessness contained by my skin and my cold intellect. My eyes I keep down on the paper in front of me, staring over their heads when they speak and cast in sideways glances. They simply tell too much and I don’t want their sympathy either.
They don’t fucking understand it.
She does. I want so badly to crawl back to her, and fear doing so would crush the reasons she ever loved me in the first place. My strength. It isn’t physical; it’s mental.
I’ve left myself nothing. In this hour, I feel it. God I feel it.
Comments
i beg to differ.
it isnt nothing, not at all.
in fact, its everything.
i feel it, too.
You make me feel vaguely but insistently angry when you write like this. It might be a trifling comfort to you that you can move someone you’ve never met with words. But hell, you can move me, and I’m not easily moved.
Try her?
ahh, Orchidea. Nail on the head, darling.
elise
” I want so badly to crawl back to her, and fear doing so would crush the reasons she ever loved me in the first place. My strength. It isn’t physical; it’s mental.
“I’ve left myself nothing. In this hour, I feel it. God I feel it.”
For someone who usually writes clearly and concisely, even with a dramatic flare, this bit of bit of prose has all the angst of a pop song. So, you must be right - it’s mental. You’re also wrong - it sounds ‘forced.’
Use that strength. Suck it up and get over it. Or, are we now supposed to believe you’re more masochist than sadist and just indulging a momentary wallow?
i’ve been in this place. imho, it has nothing to do with feeling masochistic and everything with living with the consequences of your actions. bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders - everyone.. sadist or not, feels vulnerable at some point.
“I need the sharp edge, wish it could be wielded by someone I didn’t have to worry about hurting.”
i read Kaz’s comment and understand from where it comes. And elle’s, as well. While i think they both apply to the latter portion of this post, the part that jumped out at me is the quote i’ve referenced here, the part to which i’ve returned each time i reread this.
Sometimes, it’s simply a matter of redirecting focus. Happy New Year.
elise
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