 |
solstice: Hard Bawl | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
›comments[0] ›all comments ›post #902 ›bio: kristen ›perma-link ›6/15/2026 ›19:18 ›archives ›first post ›that week
|
she could say it again. oh god, she was writing again. She could describe how pathetic it feels to be so old and weeping over another ship that has definitely sailed. She was quite a fixture on the wharf apparently. She brought her tea thermos and iPhone every night and looked out at the horizon wondering what she was going to do - what she was really going to do when she accepted that there was no signal - nothing. It wasn't turning around. dead. done. finito. but she thought they were all just negative nellies. they didn't feel what she felt. she was going to look harder just one more night then stop... and she didn't have an answer yet for what she'd do when she'd stop. Maybe she'd learn origami. she wants to remember something stupid again because it makes her feel him again. it's all she has left, and she's fine with it. World peace can fucking wait. She wafted in memories of some dude who did something to her - who made her flirt, made her cliche, made her remember. picture it. macon. a Saturday. football season. college. it was her first tropicalia ipa. she was at a new bar they never went to named after money and men and the food order was easy - junkyard fries, but their drink menu was very sports bar and she wasn't sure of what to get. He was fucking great at decisions although he claimed he liked to take a break from it. "You want a Tropicalia. Get that. you'll like it. It's practically the town beer of Athens." She did like it. It looked like sunshine. They were there to watch sports. Her dating a sports guy of all things - if the world could only see her now. She thought it was exotic - watching football and it reminded her of chuck and the statistics thing so it felt familiar - and of course she was the only person in her family that wasn't sports mad. Leon (oh his fucking name again) wasn't a douchebag about it. He wasn't a douchbag about anything. He was ... gone. she couldn't remember what she had done the last time her heart had been broken - tom waits asked her. Oh yeah, she had gone nuts, screamed at god, and picked herself apart savagely relentlessly. She had rebounded to abusive charmers. She cried and was confused a lot and it was so easy to be numb 3,600 miles away from the society that judged you - a private numbing. Breaking in exile. It was awesome to be wiser now - to go only depressed and self-destructive. Simply awesome. (or was it just the repetition seemed too cliche- and her using a ship sailing metaphor). Sitting in it all. Waiting to understand. Waiting to solve it. Trying every day. Sisyphussi rocking the roll up. She input all the information - all the memories she had. Oh she had so many more to look forward to. She was planning a piece about forests. kind of. Her house felt always 40% trashed. She continually muttered back "I'm depressed, I was dumped. give me another break." She was reminded of Uncle Scott who killed himself and they always said "the outside looked perfect - he kept that yard up and house and everything. the inside was a hoarders junk pit." She understood though -that urge to not stick out - not look fucked up. It was something she had failed at so many times. For criminy's fucking sake, she wrote a column on the public internet about being drunk for three months trying to go to another state - something that felt safe - to be someone who could ask, "If I start being more me now, is that going to trigger you to leave? I know you can't answer, but that's what I'll expect so just know that. ok. so do you want to be pink or green?" For some reason, she thought she was brave. That's the way she saw it at first: if I say it first, they can't hurt me. If I say the most fucked up thing, someone else will think their fucked up thing is OK. She was very weird. For some reason, it always had to be authentic with her, but she was the fakest person she knew. (well, that actually makes sense narcissi) it hurt so much. it was so embarrassing to care about something when you suspect it never cared about you because it went over the horizon and never came back even though you sent strong texts to the captain every hour for fourteen centuries. oh well. o lass. (he's gone) an old lady same fucking longing. She hadn't been wanting to get married (she didn't not want to). She hadn't wanted a ring. She hadn't wanted blood lockets. She hadn't wanted so many things that she thought she was so cool and awesome of her to claim she didn't want. She was different. she was special. she was a genius. blah fucking blah. She had thought she was the fucking coolest standing before him - "they must have been driven crazy by your stoicism. I'm going to be the one who stays and I'll read my book and make picnics for the seals while I wait for you to trust me. just one more..." and what would make her stop waiting? She remembered her mother saying once - or rather it was one of her mother's myth stories she wheeled out, "oh I was the same way. I cried every day for a month when your father left, and my friend was like 'why are you in here crying all the time - get out - date people - do you think he's sitting there crying over you?" "mother, your first husband was a raging narcissist who got off on ... oh I'm not going to say it again." "you don't understand". "I never do." "besides, I didn't like Leon much anyway. He never talked to me." "well, he talked to me, and I loved him and am disconsolate because I never had the fucking balls to believe I was fucking worth anything anymore. I wanted to so badly, but I think I fucked up because I thought I was some fucking loser - some broken loser who tricked him or was tricking him, and I expected him to leave from the first moment he smirked at me, and it haunts me. All of it haunts me. I think I'm a fun person to be around. god fucking knows I fucking choose my own fucking company enough - and shut up computer I know you're always along from my solitude rides. I loved him Mommy. It doesn't matter though. I've had people do it to me. It hurts so much to realize that you can feel so much, and they ... don't." "You're so weird and sensitive. You're just like your father." There were many circles in the life of narcissi. what she wanted more than anything in the entire entire entire world was to walk into our bar, order a beer, have you glance at me and lock eyes, and we just see what our brains dance to.... oh she fucked up the tenses or didn't put quotes around it. She was a sloppy narcissist for sure. or was she the daughter of narcissists that she loved like gods and trip guides? he never let her in. she could say it five million more times. god pray to all the fairies she gets bored with it and gets off that cross. Leon Leon Leon. He was a player. He loved to play. fuck him. he was great. he was interesting. he was a cool dude - a smart guy - a companion. he left. he left the minute you showed him who you were - your voice - your art - your feelings. Oh that got you didn't it? the ghosting. a writer being ghosted. it stung. He should have admired all the thoughts you expressed about him wrapped in your own attachments wounds. You gave him gifts like they were about him. It was all about you and your fucking fantasy. You never even believed he liked you. You never allowed it to be safe and real. You asked like a fucking beggar. You regressed into someone small. You didn't like yourself, and you were hoping he'd care. or even see. now you get to decide when you'll get up and stop staring at the wall. you told the professor to do it. you have to do it too. open your eyes. turn around. he is gone cry all you want, but frankly I'm getting bored with the repetition. can you believe it? I know I've said it before. But I'm really looking forward to reading something besides five thousand prisms of "dude showed up. dude stopped showing up." and I'll listen to you for five million other rants if you want narcissi. but I beg you. I beg you. I beg you. please don't let him take it. my love. my dear dear me, I very much suspect because I'm not allowed to presume anything that Leon feels - I'm not allowing myself to conjecture anymore - and bust me any time - but I very very very very much suspect love - whatever in the world you think it is he doesn't want it. He is NOT going to wake up in five weeks and go "Brenda dumped me, so I guess I'll reach out to that intense crazy bitch that lives two hours away from me and notices every fucking hair on my mole but doesn't notice that I'm not even into her." ouch. now go take a walk you beautiful mess I think you're fucking awesome. I swear to all gods and the one. put one foot in front of the other.... fuck socks with shoes unless you want them. it's your Light I promise you - you still have it. It doesn't need him. It doesn't need any of them, but it's just nice to have them around. I fucking promise. now go. I'll stay and watch the horizon for you. Promise. You never have to leave. but you will. that's the hard part. and he'll be some dude who used to light up your carnival and make oxygen come into your unsealed crypt. all of it. whatever I have to say again and again. I know you don't believe it. you don't have to. yet. but delta dawn the dude is gone.
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||