So on those days home in your car,
we jerked the steering wheel to the median,
Joking that we’d end our lives.
I’m flicking through my Calendar app right now which I use instead of that K-State paper planner I used to have, which I didn’t really use anyway which was really too bad since I paid for it – and it’s pretty barren save for a couple of finals here and there, particularly a Spanish one at 7:30am. Which is a full 2 hours before I’d get up normally. And I’m thinking, I can’t even speak English that early! And you’re thinking, “oh, you’re so lucky that you don’t have to get up before 9:30 on most days” and so maybe I’m moaning about “nothing,” but the truth is I’m not really complaining because I don’t really care. It’s just what I was expecting, bad luck naturally. So no, I’m just noting it. Because I’m fully aware that I am not a morning person.
Or an afternoon person either for that matter, but afternoon’s better than morning. Maybe it’s the coffee I’m missing. I don’t drink it because it tastes kind of pretentious, but I’ve been kind of a prick lately anyway so maybe I should take it up? I’m just thinking I don’t really have anything to “look forward to” right now, at least not positively. But I’m positive my finals will be ruinous, if that counts, though I’m not even sure that matters to me. Because I could be spending all this time studying, but instead I reminisce of something I can’t even remember exactly anymore. I can only remember time spent missing it, but I can no longer clearly remember what exactly it was I was missing.
Now what I gather is the very real fact that you weren’t happy with me, but it’s so very hard to believe something I’d never seen with my own eyes: that we weren’t going to make it through, which is just what I was told by you. And you never lied to me, I think, at least not that I knew of, excepting of course all the times you said “I love you.” Or, those probably weren’t lies either, at the time. I mean, you probably did actually (love me), but I’ve only ever been changing for the better and still you left me alone. Which is hard to understand, or maybe it’s that you were in love with those flaws you saw in me and you didn’t even realize that by fixing them to align with your own dreams, I was becoming something you really didn’t want me to be. Just dumbly following I became a reflection of what you thought you should love. But that’s not how this works. You fell in love with me, when I wasn’t so mature, before I realized I didn’t know everything. And now I feel dumb for changing (at times) because I’m no longer me and maybe that’s why you left, but probably not though – I’m probably just overanalyzing. Because I think you left me because you changed too.
Or maybe you left because you were getting better too, and you’d definitely had a head start in that. You were always better, before you left me behind in the search for the divine. But maybe I was on my way there too? I always knew there were different paths, but I must’ve naively thought we could walk them together, these two separate paths parallel to one another and heading towards the same heavenly treasure. But our arms could no longer span the distance as I shrunk in confidence as a result of your talk.
I guess I just believe that when all is said and done, we’ll end up in the same place. Maybe some of us sooner than others.
Until then, I’ll be waiting for you. Or, I wonder if that’s how it works and I bet a lot of people do wonder that too, if there’s waiting up in the sky. Or if we’re content from the get-go.
And no, I’m not saying I’m suicidal, but the season is right and like Fargo, I can see the blood on the snow. See, the thing that keeps me going is this dramatic writing, because I know that I write best when I’m depressed and I don’t feel blessed and the stress is impressed. And it kind of makes me feel good to write good, but at the same time it fucking sucks to know that my depression then is the source of my happiness, because like, what even is that doesn’t make sense. And I have to wonder if this is what you had in mind. Maybe you were being your usual intelligent self and left me for the greater good that my writing might bring to others, or even just to myself. So selfless, as always, you were to leave me behind. And I only ever wanted to give my whole self to you, so it’s almost like I’m the selfish one or, shit…I don’t know.
I ran my headphones through the wash with my hoodies yesterday and then wrote a poem about a girl I met at a party and called it “Sara (Sp?)” because I didn’t know exactly how to spell her name. And she’ll probably never read it, because I barely even got her name, or it’s possible I’ll meet her again this Friday, and it’s possible I’ll mess it up again. Saying “again” though is dependent on whether or not I messed it up in the first place, I’m thinking as I’m walking to class listening to The Presets’ “Talk Like That” but it’s the Innerpartysystem remix like I’ve always liked and you never did. And I’m singing along in my head, “You know I love it when you talk-talk-talk-talk-talk like-like-like- like-like that-that-that-that-that-that.” And I can remember fairly clearly now how you used to talk to me and maybe the most memorable way was how you used to say “heyy” like you were comforted to see me. And I think I’d hope to hear it again someday, but I wonder if you’d say it in a different way, or notice when I said “hi” back (that is, if I could even generate such a complicated response), if you could tell my heart was racing and I just… I’m getting all worked up just thinking about it.
I just wonder if you’ll read any of this, and if you did if it would change your mind, but it’s whatever, really. Or, you know, like if you’re ever thinking about texting me that you “want me back” like that song by Cher Lloyd I liked many months past, and maybe you’re just hoping I’ll text you instead. But this is my text when you’re lying in bed cold and alone one night, or if your room is warmer than mine while it’s so cold outside… And I only have the one Presets song on my iPod, so “Talk Like That” is still echoing in my head and it’s a long walk back, so for something to do I light up a cigarette, but it’s a cool menthol, and really a Red Label would be best to bring some warmth to my lungs back. The bereavement in the smoke makes me think maybe I’d like to take a minute to be realistic about how you used to talk to me, and how you used to make me think you were so much better than me, and how that used to make me feel so lucky (to have you) and how pretty fucked up that must be.
And when I get home I’ll lay on my Queen- sized bed which I bought at the beginning of the year with the hopes that I’d soon have someone to share it with. And I’ll smell the Air Wick “Virgin Islands” oil scent which masks the cigarettes and actually makes me laugh because this bed is like my own “Virgin Island.” It seems like everyone here in Manhattan is having sex without me. And then it’s back to reality and I’m wondering introspectively if smoking cigarettes is just a form of extended suicide or if it’s even guaranteed death, and maybe we’re living in a world where cancer will be cured by the time I grow old, but that’s being hopeful so I’d better put it out, after just one more drag, and it’s burnt itself out.
And now I’m just outside my house and I’ll sneak in the backdoor so I can keep my headphones in and I’ll log onto Twitter now that my hands won’t freeze in the wind. Twitter, where I’m not the only one on a dry spell of love and everyone says they’re as lonely as me. But next to my direct messages is a little (1) and it’s a message from a girl who belongs to my best friend, and is she hitting on me? Or… I really need an analyst to flesh this all out for me, and I’d pay royally to understand all that’s going on around me. But before that I’d like a nap. Yes, I’d really appreciate some sleep.
But I can’t really nap; I’ve just never really been able to. I can’t lie down and rest when the sun’s in the sky. When there’s so much to do outside, but I don’t want to do anything. I just kind of want to die… or probably not. I guess I like being alive. But maybe if I could just die and come back without feelings, and emotions as a… well, nevermind.
They tell me “life is short. Live it up. YOLO,” right. But life’s also the longest thing I’ve ever done that I remember and I’d never wish to live it twice – at least not right now, no, not like this. You only live once is plenty for me. I’d only wish for an endless night, where no one can see me running from everything I tell myself I’m not afraid of. Because maybe I’m running to it – I can’t really see, but really I think that’d be alright for me, I couldn’t want what I didn’t know I don’t have. But the darkness is cold and no primrose path.
Yes, I’d rather just listen to all the creatures dance, than have to see the shattered man in the full-blooded mirror, glaring back at me and saying “go on. Get up. Get out of here. Have fun. Please, if you could, put down the gun,” but I’m pointing it back at him while he’s pointing it back at me. And it’s really just my fingers pointing and I’m just being dramatic, but that’s all I’ll ever be. Because I’ll never apply myself to doing things because I just don’t see the point, because the point’s not all about selfish fucking me.
I’m scared too, when I write, about what people will think when they read the word “suicide,” which I wrote somewhat jokingly, but imagine it was me. It’s just – we’re all depressed, so how special does that make me?
It’s not a joke, I know. It’s a very serious word thrown around so carelessly. I just keep telling myself, if I could just make it to January, I’ll be okay. And what’s today? December? Great. It’s only a couple weeks away.
So until then I’ll just queue up The Neighbourhood, like I always do because they haven’t put out a single single I don’t like and lately they keep my mind off of you by reminding me that I’m not alone in melancholy, and together we’ve got the strength to carry on. No, not you and me (I have to tell myself).
I feel like I need to tell my family that they do help me too, and even much moreso than these… just… guys that I don’t know. But see, it’s much more socially acceptable to just turn up the music than to drop out of school and go back home where they’ll love me unconditionally. So to ward off these thoughts, I’ll just refresh Twitter and read other people’s thoughts and retweet the ones that I like that remind me of me and make me think maybe, just maybe, we’re all on this same page, forever scrolling an endless distance. I post my poetry online to the virtual stage and savor the couple favorites from my real friends and gauge that everyone else is just too busy getting laid for me, which is fine. I’m honestly just jealous most all of the time.
Because I was never too busy for you, and I’m thinking about that up until dinner when I can’t go out to eat because I don’t have any money because I candon’t have a job because I’m just too lazy. Or it’s too cold out anyway. And I dream of moving away, but only a daydream because at night my subconscious is a realist apparently. And it’s so cold in this house, I reflect until the microwave dings.
Then I do a little homework or rewatch Dexter with my roommates again until the sleeping pills kick in. I’m too tired to sit up then but I’ll lie there in bed awake for the longest time, listening to music; a playlist of my most- played songs this week and they’re things like Life On Repeat’s “Forgotten” on repeat. Mostly because I just like the way he sings this line, “I’m only human but today I swear to God I might ascend into the sky,” and it’s not even the whole line. Because although the whole song’s not bad – really, it’s great – but it’s just that pitchy way he rhymes “sky” at the end with “lies” and it’s hard to describe.
It could be the energy of the song that’s keeping me up too, but I also find their emotion to be relaxing to me, emotionally. And then it’s The Word Alive’s “2012” which I realize was still less than a year ago, but won’t be for long, I can guarantee, and I think I like especially the line “no one will recognize me;” really speaks to me.
Because I want to cut and dye my hair and dress more provocatively so that no one will recognize me, but I don’t really either because I like my long hair and I don’t want people to think I’m just doing it for the attention, dramatically, when really I just want to cut all ties with the people who have known or will never truly know me. But that’s mostly because I won’t let them get to. Because knowing me is a privilege and because I’m a dick too.
Then I think I might check Twitter again because I might’ve missed something, like maybe you subtweeted me, but I really shouldn’t do that to myself, so instead I just queue up “2012 (KC Blitz Remix)” mindlessly because I’ll be too tired to remember any of this in the morning anyway. But what then am I thinking about right before I drift off to sleep? Really this song wasn’t a great choice retrospectively, because of the lines “welcome to the year 2012,” and “do you remember where it all began?” which I know wasn’t meant to mean how I’ll skew it to relate to me: when all this sadness began on Christmas Day 2012, that moment you let go of my hand.
And I wake up with a sore throat in the middle of the night after nightmares of you and me eating glass that were probably manufactured subconsciously to explain the pain. When I swallow it’s a fight to not tear up, because this pain must be nothing if it’s not forthright. I mean it’s like the depression that people can’t see and so they don’t understand and when I try to explain it’s hard to believe, because it’s become quite fashionable to take emotional sick leave. Everyone’s doing it, or at least in my chosen profession of writing, or the profession I think that chose me, where happiness creates happy art which is hard to enjoy because it’s hard to relate because we all have our problems, like my swallowing again. And I guess what I was thinking as I wrote this all down in my Notes app at 2am is that I’m afraid I’ll forget this thought in the morning, and my (arguably) imaginative thoughts are all I feel like I have left.
Then there’s the fact that this seemingly endless well of despair could soon run dry if I met the right… girl. And I still feel like I could drown in those two inches of water the experts say I’ve cried. But if and when I’m happy again, then it won’t matter any longer what leaks from my pen. Just love letters for when we’re not together or maybe if we’ll never be together again. Or, maybe I’m speaking of someone else entirely who I haven’t yet met, but hope will someday be (my girl) eventually. Or maybe it’s Sara and maybe then I’ll find love again but until that happens maybe I’m afraid that just as soon as I do, your ghost will return and I’ll be moving on finally and then you’ll be chasing after me.
But that’s just me being hopeful, or I guess it would be if I thought it was true, but truly I’m not all that hopeful anymore. No, that’s the old me. And I think if you saw me now, maybe you wouldn’t even recognize me. And it could be just like we were starting over new and I can’t even chew on the Jolly Ranchers I bought to soothe my throat, or rather that were bought for me by my best friends who love me but who aren’t in love with me. And I think this one might be blue raspberry or maybe it just looks that way by the blue light of my clock/iPhone dock. But it tastes blue too and it’s sweet like you and when I choke on my saliva it’s like cut diamonds in my throat, like your name when I quote all the pretty things you used to say, all the things I misread as “I’ll stick around for a bit” and then you’re… swallowing again. And if I fell back asleep and never woke back up maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, I don’t think. But fuck… I really don’t know what comes after all this, and so it’d be quite the risk, and so really it’d be great if I could just learn to live in bliss. And I’ve heard that ignorance is bliss so if I could just learn to forget everything I think I know, and to just go with the flow, I’m sure everything could really be alright for me.
It just seems like a lot sometimes I would, personally, be better off dead ‘cause maybe then I’d be free from this misery. But I owe it to my friends and to my family to tough this shit out and just get over it. I can’t opt-out now. It’s much too early and much too uncertain to quit.
So I called this “Suicide Season” more as a nod to the band that taught me that it’s okay to just be “okay” – “even Hell can get comfy once you’ve settled in,” and not because I’m quite dead as writ. But it got your attention, didn’t it? And now, knowing that, I’ll understand if you go away, but at least you’ll know that in writing all this down I maybe made something I can be proud of and so it definitely bought me at least one more day.
So on those days home in your car,
we jerked the steering wheel to the median,
Joking that we’d end our lives.
But we weren’t joking all the time.