Monday I was listening to Gravedigging and Medisin by The Classic Crime (both of which are slightly darker songs) and Blaine/Caley was feeling tristifical. Don't look at me like that, it is a word. Means to make sorrowful, no joke.
So his being sad consequently made me a little sad, and I wrote him a drabble. When he gets sad, though, his usually logical mind gets a little scrambled and impressionist, so we ended up with a weird mix of present, past, and future tenses and repetition. I was going to fix it, but I think it works better this way. It is a pain to read, sorry.
March 7, 2011
I get so sick of this. I get so impossibly sick of this. I’ll kneel, my head on my arms on my knees, kneeling in front of the toilet where I emptied my stomach after crying so long I felt dizzy. There are no words to describe how nauseated I am by all of it.
I’ll stand and stumble into my modern kitchen, shiny, black, curved, sharp and metallic, trying to find my cabinets to find something to take away the splitting headache. My hand hovers over the bottle, but I only keep it for that: sometimes, if I let my pale hand slide over the glass, knowing that behind it was alcohol so toxic it would make the whole world cease to exist, if I felt the electric shocks through the cool bottle, I feel stronger leaving it behind. Control. I crave control.
I’ll lean against the counter, swallow the aspirin without water, stand— still— feeling it slide down my throat and convincing myself it will fix something. No one else is here; it’s just me, in my big empty apartment. Nobody there to tell me to get a glass of water, no one to close the cabinet. No one even knows my name.
I’ll watch the clock as it ticks on, the green digits slowly going up, coming down, a never ending cycle of mindless rote. There is no comfort in it; I watch it without seeing, feeling scathed, aching, wanting to be done. Wanted it to be over. But it’s not over, it can’t be over. My job isn’t done.
I’ll slip slowly down, until I’m seated on the floor, waiting for my head to stop throbbing, for my stomach to calm. I can’t go anywhere. I can’t do anything. I was searching. I need revenge. I can do nothing, be nothing, want nothing, crave nothing, cannot dream at all until I achieve my goal; my revenge. It is a nightmare.
I’ll drop my head into my hands, and yet more tears gather into my eyes, spill down my cheeks, drip slowly onto my black slacks, as I began to laugh. Bliss is getting what I deserve, yet I am running, racing, flying towards a goal I shouldn’t have chosen. And it’s still my fault: it’s my fault no one knows my name. It’s my fault I’m still running. It was my fault I made myself sick. I make myself sick. I hate myself for choices I made when I knew nothing else, as if I’m two people, and I can blame myself because I am innocent.
I’ll laugh at my past idiocy now, and laugh at my present knowledge , and laugh at the irony, quietly to myself, sitting on my hard kitchen floor, the cold seeping through my clothes and into my bones, the silence stabbing through me. Why did I pick this if it only could have led to where I am now? What was I thinking? What am I thinking? Revenge is who I am—resilience, an act; endurance, a necessity.
I’ll slowly get to my feet, the headache never leaving, the nausea only fading to the background, the clock ticking on and the chase never ends. What happens when I get it, my revenge? Then can it all be over? Can I just let go of this vice-grip on existence I have, my fingers frozen clamping shut? I’m already gone to them—will I convince myself that when I’ve done my duty, I can finally just give up?
I’ll wander back to my bed, dark, huge, uninviting and cold, hoping that tonight I might have dreams before waking again to cold reality. But I don’t dream because I never dream, and my only escape, my only bliss, my only rest, was torn from my icy hands.
I've been thinking lately I need to be better about ending my blog posts on a happier note, so I'm not going to leave you there, don't worry!
In our writing class (we're studying poetry, remember?) I had to write a heartbeat poem. You know, one with a ba-DUM ba-DUM ba-DUM beat. Heart made me think of love, and love of course makes me think of Pit, so it's about him. Kind of. I don't really know if he's a prince... I don't think he is. But he is a prince of the skies, so it all works.
Aaah I love Pit. X3
It's lighthearted, dorky, a little fangirlish. Oh well. It matches the mood of the whole relationship, so it's all good. ^///^
March 9, 2011
Up in a castle in the sky,
There lives a prince with wings who flies.
He’ll go around the sun today;
Tonight he’ll frolic with the stars.
His friends are birds and bats and breeze:
The clouds know that he’s quite a tease,
And he’ll grab to them for a sail
Whenever it strikes his fancy!
He knows the storms all by first name.
Sometimes in them he’ll play his games
He dances with lightning and hail
With nary a care in the world.
And some days when I squint real tight
I’ll see his shadow, high and slight.
I wish to join him at his play,
with feet stayed to the ground.
And with that I'll take my leave.