theatre script for act iv

dramatis personae

i make the same choice again. maybe it is to prove to myself that i didn't really do anything wrong the first time. to engrave into my head that i was not at fault. that i'm logical. that i'm responsible.

it is easier to segregate from who you were. the truth is, you can't really do that.

sometimes my ego towers over my intellect.

sometimes i make amends when it is too late.

i never know when the time is right.

don't you think someone should pay for this? all of this?

aren't you? paying for it?

*

is it impossible to swim this far without becoming water ? you can only run so far.

run to the wrong people and expect the right things to happen.

i never stop believing that people are good. deep down, truly. they are good.

*

as a younger adolescent, i was more aggressive. inwards, that is. fantasizing about all the different ways i could hurt myself. i think i had a lot of energy back then. 

not like now.

now i feel like i'm floating all the time.

i was never actively violent. it never went past the thought.

i don't remember the last time i was that violent in my head.

now i just feel old.

i feel 

so

finished.

*

your frame of reference.

you can turn all your hurt and crime into art but it doesn't change what it is. 

on some days i look back and look at the grief i carry. it gets heavier each day.

i have tried to sort it, to paint it, to hide it, to abandon it. it is relentless and inescapable. it catches you in the pauses between a second and it hurls you back home.

and every time i think home is gone and burnt down, there it is. 

not destroyed, but somehow worse.

it is always empty.

how do you explain that every single thing makes a difference. in a decade that teaches indifference, how do you explain.

how do you explain that what you hate the most is what you love more than anything else. that hate is a contortion of love in itself.

how do you explain that i lose my identity in leaving.

that i have only seen trying. that if people don't try over and over again, hell can break loose.

how do you explain that

if i knew that was the last time, i would have done better.

i would have taken five more minutes.

you can't explain any of that. some things you either live through, or you don't.

so i don't say anything at all.

your frame of reference

has changed in such subtle ways.

i stole that from a friend.

*

grief feels like a hundred horses coming at you.

reminding you of all the hundred things you did wrong.

like somehow you're a criminal who got away with all those hundred little things.

and your punishment isn't death. it is instead, life. 

to live with the knowledge that you got away.

because that hangs heavy till you die.

*

some people don't have anything to lose. and they are fearless. some people have everything to lose. and they are ingrates. and i, like always, hang in limbo.

right

in 

the middle.

with not the entirety of the wrath,

yet

just enough for me to wish myself dead.

this blog has started to feel like a suicide note. 

but then again.

i stay horrifyingly self aware to harm myself irreversibly.

still

stuck

in my middles.

an interlude & its epilogue

i am so deeply finished and final. yet i am also not dead. so i must walk this limbo.

i have these weird long drafts of writing i never post and this is one of them.

this blog would not exist if i had a functioning therapist. mental health is inaccessible at its best. pick your battles.

and also go away but not too far away don't die.