28 march

this is what it took for resurrection: my first cold sea slap of regretting, of loving and letting it go. it took that.

there is an ugly lump of scar tissue and i survive by detaching myself from it, for i cannot stand anything to be hard or unattractive. all those things i did to Someone Else and threw to the winds with so much apathy come ricocheting down upon my head in some kind of divine justice or morbid sort of poetic irony. but there is a certain healing to hysteria; to being hacked to pieces by ones own flaws.

(remember at the front office that day, and we were so derisive of his dullness? and you remarked what i had done, what i'd implied: "not even, 'there's someone else that i prefer', but 'i prefer nothing. i'd rather be alone than be with you.'". and now-- and now! the lots fall back to me; all that apathy falls back onto my head like so many cinderblocks. for now it is me; and you are the one who would rather be alone.)

it took that liquid state of pain, of thick unthinking unaligned pain, to unseat me from the dull banal throb of my own unchangeable circumstance. there is no benefit to pity, and this is good: there is nothing healthy in excusing oneself by such. no matter what the circumstances are, one is still expected to turn oneself inside out to the world and be Better, Better, Better; to breathe lightning and spit sparks.

when one is knocked over, one may choose to harden and ball up into oneself, suckling scar tissue; or one may choose to bounce, now wizened, and return to original shape. yes, you made me happy, made me very, very happy, but obviously you didn't want to stick around-- so i learned from you.

it took all those blue volts of inadequacy for me to return to being alive.