I invested all I had in a single breath. What could I do when it didn’t blow the fire out? I know, full blown, what the failure of a life feels like.
I wonder which is harder: forgiving others or yourself?
I find the latter simply impossible. If I were you, I’d want to send me off too. So when it comes to flaccid passes and ineffectual glances, I get it. If there’s anything to look at, it’s the intrigue of a life in ruins. A steady 10-year long delusion that ended in an epic destruction. Towers fell and stones crumbled and sand turned our eyes to glass.
Did you ever notice “our” is just “your” without the why?
How simply we reduce to madness. To nothing. To ghosts. Who, in this modernity, believes in us?
There I go again. Splitting myself into pieces so I don’t have to be alone. A practice at least 20 years old. I turned the ugliness into art for others’ fascination. Maybe partly as a safeguard. So when I went stark mad, no-one would know.
It’s happening, I’m sure. The particles are breaking apart. My seams are threadbare and old. My bones are strained from the lack of muscle in my legs.
But. I have to carry on.
So, I continue with stars dancing around my eyes. Lightheaded, I sway from side to side. Miss the corner, cut it short. It’s like I’m four years old all over again. My head splits open along the same old seam. Like a zipper popping its streamlined design. Crimson rushes, gushes out, gets in my hair, my eyes. If you look close enough through the meaty mess, I think you can see the pearly white of my skull.
I stagger and fall over, reduced to hands and knees. I flounder, covered in my mistakes, misgivings. I lick my lips and am bit by the salty metallic taste of my own insides.
Still, I can’t stop. Nowhere safe to rest. I force myself back up. The fat in my underarms jiggle like jelly. Loose skin already striped with lines of age, sightly bluish grey.
I guess it’s better there’s no-one to see this pathetic show. This is how the end-game looks, huh? It came on sooner than I thought. Oh well. We had some fun before now, right?
It’s a vague and distant comfort if the answer is: yes. They were good times and we almost changed the world. You changed me – that’s for sure. I only fucked it up.
I’d say “I’m sorry” but it doesn’t count.
Maybe in the next life, some part of me will come back and get it right. Maybe in another universe, I already did. If so, I can’t wait to hear the story. How good it felt to have given everything and gotten love back.
Somewhere it happens, right?