Pitiful But Persistent

I have given you parts and pieces of myself so precious to me that I cannot talk to anyone about them. I realised this while I was wondering what I could give you as a little parting gift since I didn't say a proper good-bye and I had never given you any gifts either.

I was looking for something both meaningful and magical, something decent but at the same time joyous, something that would feel like me looking at you: otherworldly yet tangible. How could I put my feelings into a tiny piece of matter, how could I expect a little physical thing contain so great a burden, convey so much as my emotions? And to make it even harder, I didn't want to overshare, to force any weight on your shoulders, to be explicit.

So I searched and searched and searched. I went through my whole life looking for bits of enchantment. It was everywhere, still, it wasn't new to you. I had shared so much with you in so little time. I had given you so many gifts without even realising it. We share the moon and the stars, my favourite music tracks, the hidden corners of the campus, and the pieces of language I like. And yet it seems as we could share tons more. I have kept quiet, bottled up the uncontainable since then, all for I don't even fancy telling others about these little magical spots in my life, to stain them by strangers' gazes.

Some part of me still wants to know all about you. There. Exactly in the right corner of my heart. It quivers and gets squeezed so tight, encircled by memories and figments of imagination.

I miss sitting next to each other on deserted wooden benches of the campus, focusing all my attention on that part of my back that touches the bench, pressing my backbone into it. I miss leaving alone the voices that the air carries heavily, forgetting my eardrums, and instead, sending down all the nerves to the spine, listening to the viberations that the back of the bench carries along. I miss cherishing the viberations that penetrate into my flesh, that reach my heart sooner than any murmuring could ever reach any ear.

There's so much pressure on my cheeks that I can't smile. They almost hurt. This is all because I just got suspended from the National Library. Yes. Definitely.

Crying in the study hall: unlocked. So many new experiences. I have lost count. burnt my lip by a cigarette last week, joined an intellectual discussion in a dark smoky cafe the week before. Had never smoked a hand-rolled cigarette before either. Interesting. Still unable to talk about the main and most important event. I wish I could only stop the tears.

I once said that I've learned how to keep myself from hurting and tormenting others by staying alone.

Should've listened to my own advice. There's no use in groaning and howling like a wounded beast when the pretty little butterfly is already crunched under the very hands that belong to me.

Not true of the world, but my mind is watching it in slow motion anyway. Dead leaves have almost stopped mid way: they're floating in the air. I can't move fast either, fast has turned impossible. So is the keen mind. As if walking on ice, my mind moves too cautiously, too slowly for me to track its movements. What is happening? How did I end up thus mesmerized? Last I remember I was entertaining the idea that life awaits me. Years and years are waiting ahead. Goodness, why does it sound so terrifying? Frozen in fear, I hear their footsteps closing in on me, ready to attack any moment. I know that I must be strong if I want to endure life, if I want to reach anything, anywhere, anyone, if I want to survive. I know that I need a muscular body to take all those hits from years to come. I know that I must have a low pitch voice, a bit husky, a bit coercive, in order to be taken seriously. I know that all would end in ruins if I don't have faith in my own strength, if I can't emotionally lean on my own shoulders. I'm the only one who can stand up for me, and I feel all weak, all beaten up.

I think. I constantly think. That's a burden. I need a quiet place to rest. A place where I can't hear my own mind thinking, my own heart feeling.

There's more but I shouldn't tell.

This morning I once again started looking to the both sides before crossing the street. I do not know where the fear of having an accident had gone, the enormous fear of getting crushed to a pulp by crazy taxi drivers, mighty but filthy buses, or deranged motorcyclists. I am not aware why it decided to come back either. Well, I guess everyone needs their time alone, right? I only require to know how I am supposed to manage my life if the all mighty fear decides to go away once more. For instance, I know that the urge to punch walls, to smash my bones, cools off if I run. I know that I can go on living without scratching my skin to the point of having dried blood under my fingernails if I simply paint. (I also have learned how to keep myself from hurting and tormenting others by staying alone.) What is needed now is for me to figure out this new leisure activity, then I can live safe and sound the rest of my pitiful life. Good news is, I understand their nature in general: they are little detours, tiny little adventures that my generous life has bestowed upon me the opportunity to take. Oh, how grateful I am to have them! My little secrets!

Whenever there is emotion thrown at me, I cover my face with my hands for protection and a defense cocoon emerges instantly from my fingertips which surrounds my whole body at once. Then the weather turns foggy inside my eyeballs. Facts turn into ice, shattered. Shards of broken reality scratch my feet as I try to walk toward people. It seems only natural to avoid moving, right? I detest the totality of emotions to have caused this bloody burning sensation in my feet. I despise people and their feelings for initiating this whole process.

Does it make me the villain? I'm not sure. It means that I basically don't even hate people. It's simply fear converted into hatred that has swallowed me. I am just terrified of not being able to reciprocate properly, of not being understood. Pitiful.

Scattered all over the place, each of my body parts feels a distinct contrasting sensation. It's been devastatingly hard to put a sentence together, as if my mind doesn't belong to me any more. Shameful, dull, penetrative feelings don't leave me. Like a kite's string I fly loose but never free, even so not belonging to any child's hands. I recall vividly the decision I made to cut all ties. Yet why am I still lingering with a knife in my hands? Why am I petrified in the face of this dark empty cave? Silly question. I am no longer in possession of my old self. Some sort of monster is building up in my in my insides, screeching and scratching. I need it out before I sound like him more than I already do.

I feel so fucking hung-over. Can’t afford to lose control in the midst of all this. This damn heart doesn’t stop beating so hard, so loud, so fast. So pathetic. It’s like my stomach’s sunk deep and stayed down there. Like I’m invited to my ex’s wedding: an awful lot of emotions.

I'm going, by the way.

***

My life is haunted, the shadows call.