could it be colder than it already is
by Sine Qua Non
the strange thing is that all the sentences have arranged and rearranged itself in my mind for weeks now but I never got to typing them up here. i manage to scribble in my notebooks every now and then, but then, no scraps of my broken heart have yet been scattered in this digital universe. quite a difference a day could make, too. i seem to be unable to conjure the same sense of sadness and longing that i’ve felt in the last few days. not now, when he’s at it again and talking to me.
There is a rollicking kindness that looks like malice, that’s what Nietzshe said, i think.
While it be good that I am not totally as frenzied about plunging into conversation with him again as I used to before, what I’m trying to figure out now is how i should now go about letting him know what i feel. for days, i’ve been so conclusive about the fact that we will never speak to each other again and that gave me an excuse to cook up the entire scenario of writing the letter and sending it. rehearsing in my head which way the words would dance on the paper and how the folded piece of paper should land on his hands.
the thing is, that i don’t actually know what the thing is.
truth be told i keep saying i could no longer play his game. that i could no longer permit myself to be taken for easy scum he could call up and disregard after he’s done with me. it’s so easy to say that on moments that i am not waking up alone to a dark sunrise with the coldness reaching itself into my chest. it is easy to say that when i know i won’t be alone on weekends, occupied enough to prevent my own thoughts from reeling itself back to him. the problem being even just a break to pee allows me the space to remember and long for him.
but, really, i refuse to chase. i want to be chosen.
and the strange thing is, and now i suppose this to be true since it comes to me so suddenly and so strongly — that i feel that i am not being truly selfless about my love for him if i do not chase him and fight for his attention. i have no clue if that sounds stupid, sadistic, or just honest and true. i just draw back from questioning my own motives when i recall the kind of torture i put myself through every time i park myself at the edge of hope’s cliff and watch myself pull out my heart and feed it to the vultures that circle the grey sky above me. he never comes to save me. i always jump off after my heart falling fast before me.
i love him, i do, but i could no longer stand the pain.
i guess nothing more needs to be said after that. only that the next time i walk to the edge of that cliff, i’m wishing somebody will be ready to fall with me — backs to the ground, eyes to the sky.