Categories: uncategorized, depression-health
Tags: the journey
Date: 07 April 2011 04:53:53
We’re by the sea and I don’t get it. I say I do, and I make the right noises, but I don’t.
What you’re telling me is that I have to be really alone. I have to be alone with this. That things are going to keep dying and spoiling and changing into other things until I have been alone for... how long? You won’t say. You just look at me evenly.
I trust you. I trusted you. I thought I knew where we were going. I thought this was something else. I made small tribute to the horrible prospect of loneliness, but I never really thought... I never actually let it in, not like this, not like now.
Did I imagine it, this idea of something new? When I thought of being happy and calm and understood, of writing and laughing and knowing and being known, what WAS it if it wasn’t real?
Was it all just about my slowly realising that even YOU are not there? The last thing I have is this sense that you’ve been with me since whenever. From before anybody tried to tell me what you were. You’ve been so clearly a mirror of myself at times, so obviously a machinated hideous projection of my own hates and fears and wants. Other times you’ve seemed real though. Other times - I could have sworn. Something else. Vivid and present and kind of safe.
Not this though. Not this, I didn’t imagine even YOU. Too many things now, too hard. This is too hard. It’s too much. I can’t lose more, not again, not now, not here, DON’T PLEASE DON’T
Oh.