I watched my life as if it were happening to someone else. I did not live it. All the mess I created, unleashing my chaotic mind upon the tangent of relations so carefully accepted, weaved, built upon by myself; the things and people I moved away from, distancing myself, leaving behind just scrapes of memories more unhappy than not, I wonder if someone ever did that to me what would I think of them?
But I don’t. As empathic as I feel towards someone’s death or a child crying for his mother, I don’t for those closest to me and what agonies I relay upon them through my words, actions or indifference. They get masked by the self-centeredness and then I wonder, why they all leave in the end. And then I complain and yell and shut myself again to never step out of the cage I crafted with my own essence of being. But this tender part of me, with its mischievous curiosities and desires reaches out yet again to another broken soul. I wonder if I can make you whole again.
I never think I’ll end up breaking you worse.
Misery loves company but destruction feeds off of it. And to everyone I destroyed or who destroyed me, to all the company I kept over the years, I gave a word, a sentence, a fleeting paragraph in a fiction somewhere or a bunch of letters on old tattered paper that smelled of rot and seawater; much like what I am made of.
And to those who dared reproach me for my truths, held up a mirror to show me the stains on my face weren’t from ink but the slime of the guilt accumulated over the years, I laughed and gave a song, a wandering thought, a poem but often not. There were the far ones who didn’t step directly into my path but knew of me from sources all mysterious yet true, they judged and scraped down my walls, wanting to show the victims the truth but my claws I suppose had already been too deep and the wounds, the count even I couldn’t keep and the lies, I suppose, best/worst of them all, so easily believed.
I wonder what my mom would say, if she knew of all the lives I destroyed, if she could see the stains clear as day on my face, if she stopped to look or ask, “Are you okay?”
I’d probably spill my guts and then have no words for my screen to feed off on. I wonder if that is why I’ve not gone on rambling like this in quite a while now, waiting for someone to pull it out of me like a day’s old vomit from eating everything nice in extra quantities and letting it become a mess and an itch in your stomach, for everything that makes you happy must also make you sad and for all the good I did, I also did bad. The balance scales are broken so are the tools, I don’t dream anymore of far off places, a small cabin and a stool. The itch to connect with another human is gone, I have finally had my fair share of dusks and dawn. I wish I could call this my last letter and finally apologize, to all those I hurt and most of all to my eyes, for they’ll never see another day, another city, another face. If I was strong enough, I’d forgive all the ones that make the pain in my heart rise up in solitude, but I’m the one responsible for my turpitude and thus with this final letter I would say, I existed but not once did I want to stay in the world that saw me but did not accept, an anomaly who only thought of herself in such odd ways, I wonder if it is ever possible to treat yourself the highest being and think so low of yourself yet, it has happened and thus, so it shall be. And I am not strong and so I will not stop writing and finally bid farewell to the everything. I wish I could just lie gently on the ground and let it all be a faraway dream but I awake with a nightmare that opens its mouth to say something, but I scream and breathe and live to see another day.