Hearing my heart break, I feel like crying. Maybe it’s a lack of a sleep, maybe it’s a lack of you, maybe it’s both. Here I sit in your sweater, clinging desperately to a fleeting memory of you, clinging desperately to the memory of a man who promised to love me, a promise that I fear one day broken, will be my solitary ruin, here I sit (weak and weary) by my lonesome self.
Last night was probably the first time I thought about Ricky Meyer in a really long time.
I’ve loved you for such a long time, such a long, long time. Why won’t you love me back? Why won’t you love me?!
Quite honestly, I just really needed a way out, an escape from the horrid reality that plagues. Now that my escape has left, now that I am left alone, once again, now that the world comes crashing back, like the pull and push of waves on the beach, I’m…lost? Lonely? Miserably? This is a world that never loved me. I am alone.
And somehow, right now, the world seems so big and I seem so small and college so intimidating and school so annoying and all I want is you, you, you, to bury my face in your chest, take in the way you smell, stay with you, hang on to you, my last flickering ray of light, of hope, of salvation from my lonely despair. Oh, stay with me.
And in an instant, all of this emotion washes over me. All of this leaves me and I feel no more the pain, the dull ache that resides in the calm and lucid sea of my dreams. It leaves me like a wraith being blown across the world, his ghostly existence betrays him. It leaves, like autumn wind and winter snow. It leaves, like you left me.
Maybe I’m just hungry. Perhaps hunger is akin to despair, lust, the need to be filling, satiated by your presence, a thirst never ending, complete me? I beg.
Everything reminds me of you, your silence, your abrupt unresponsiveness plays, teases my mind. I long, I long for your response, speak, I shall listen to your words, savor them like droplets of gold, of honey, of sweet mellifluous sound. Speak.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate all of it. Take me seriously. Love me.
There’s a sickness in my stomach. Please stay. I want to cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, please don’t go. Be with me. Love me. Tend to me. Feed my heart with love. Do anything, just don’t leave. Please, don’t forget about me.
I can’t stand it, fuck, fuck, fuck, I really, I spend almost every single waking moment just thinking about him, this person, him, you, he, shit, I don’t care, I don’t know. I want you, I want you. Come back, come back. This is worse than anything you could’ve ever done to me, to leave me like this, like you always do, abruptly, right when I’m reaching satisfaction, right when I’m willing to admit my love for you, right when I know what I want, when I want to tell you something you leave at the worse times possible.
I’m trying to type with all ten fingers and it’s really sort of hard even though it’s really not, maybe that’s why lately I’ve been slipping up because I’m engaging my left ring finger but that;s a different story entirely. In a way I am typing faster but I don’t really know.
Hey, kid
I miss you. No, quite honestly I don’t know what I’m feeling now, but it hurts a hell of a lot every time I so much as even think of you. The though of you crossing my mind is akin to be stabbed repeatedly through the heart with a sharp, blunt, hot, molting, large piece of metal. It hurts like fuck.
It really just comes back, now, to yearning for someone, anyone. I’m…tired? Tired? Of waiting, of this gushing feeling exploding from my chest, of loving…
Do I miss him? Or the idea of him? I wonder…if I’ll ever stop living in abstractions. I wonder…if I’ll ever get over myself. Cease my useless pandering…I wonder.
Why, why, why, why, why, why…do I do this all the time. I’m so useless in every venture I attempt. I’m so useless in everything I don’t attempt. A dream is a dream, and I’ll just look for a way out.
I feel like crying. Everything is an inane impossibility.
I needed that, in the most sincere way, I need that.
He was sort of right, I can’t get any credit for it anyways.
My penis, your vagina, come Thanksgiving? Oh god, I feel like tackling him. I’m giddy. That’s all.
Henry Rearden’s family needs to be smacked. I feel bad for the poor man. God, his mother is awful. I would’ve loved the bracelet. I am a fucking sentimentalist.
There’s a…there’s something…I’m trying to understand myself and failing. I don’t get why it hurts so much, human emotion, human interaction, all of this nonsense that fills the world. I just want to die, inevitably, in the end. I want to cry. I want him and yet, I know, I know I don’t. I don’t know I want something better. There, there we go. He’s my first love? Just the first. I’d wound up marrying my high school sweetheart? Who am I? What am I going to do? Why am I such an incapable person. GOD FUCKING DAMN. GOD FUCKING DAMN I HATE EVERYTHING Shhh, quiet, calm down, calm down…shhh, I hate it when he tells me to shut up. I hate it when he doesn’t speak. I don’t get him. Why is he so self destructive? What is he trying to PROVE?
There’s restlessness in my bones, in my veins, that maybe I’m mistaking for lust and desire, or maybe it’s the other way around. If her were here with me I’d wring his neck, but had he been here the entire time, I wouldn’t be feeling this, at all. Everything, everything is a dream, I’m living in a hell, without a door and without a window, without an exit. I want out.
I had a dream about Simon Baker, yes, “The Mentalist” guy, yes, yes, yes. I liked it very much, the way he looked at me, slipping his hand in mine, the way his skin felt, smooth, silky, like butter, like cream, the way he held me as we studied that sheet. I don’t get what we were doing, I suppose we were stuck in the day July 20th. What year? I don’t remember. And the second, the second the fragile shell of my dream breaks, I’m tossed like a helpless rag doll back into reality, into the jarring company of my friends, my Iona prep friends, my Stuy friends, Michael May, John Connuck, Justy Kosek, people I don’t even think about, unless I see them of course. Perhaps, perhaps this is a sign…of something, a sign of foreboding. Something.
I don’t know how I feel right now. I feel numb to everything, but at the same time so sensitive to the smallest emotion. Sex, fucking, nothing, nothing, it’s all just nothing, ash, dust, a carpe diem philosophy, smoke and mirrors, rising in the air like a cylindrical dragon of death, a phoenix rising fro, its ashes, from the cherry pit of a cigarette, rising to greet the ceiling, rising to die.