Moments of clarity like these seldom come to me anymore. The world may have gone quiet, but there’s a noise inside my head that just can’t be silenced. And if even all the quiet in the world can’t give me peace— well, then i don’t quite know what to do anymore.
There is— and god hope not literally— multiple parts of myself. While i know it’s only normal as humans to have multi-faceted characters, it still doesn’t quite soothe my heart when that one repetitive argument inside my mind rages all over again, for all intents and purposes, to break my resolve. There isn’t a way out and there most certainly isn’t an escape route, because all of this, it is solely of my own doing.
My mind, brilliant as i might wish it, in so far has only been capable of constructing a world plucked entirely from the most hideous of experiences. It has pinned onto me incredulous expectations and god-awful hopes and dreams that even in the clearest of minds— as i am now— can’t wrap my head around. It is simple, my wish, yet also simply impossible. Just as i cannot will myself to change, i am no more capable of changing another. But there is no stopping the ever-growing pining.
If it is love you speculate what i am now writing about to be, well, you are most certainly right. But it is not the kind of love you think, or i think, i know of.
What i have known to be love is non-exhaustive lists of obligations and expectations. It is not a feeling, so much as it is a job. Love is what happens when it’s the “right thing to do”, not the thing you wish you could do. I have hoped that this was not the case, but all that i have experienced has glaringly showed me that “love” renders my capacity to feel nose-diving from 10,000 feet above the ground— without a parachute to cushion my landing. And only in doing what i do, can i find those sparse few moments of quiet.
It is deceptively quick, how i accelerate from 0 to 50 to my very own terminal velocity. It slyly slicks through the cracks in my defences, it pushes and pulls in all the ways that feel so right when it really— should be so wrong. Then in tandem with everything else that just isn’t good enough, my strength slips right into place.
For these few glorious moments of my everyday, i can pretend that i am not falling. That i am not gravitating towards the cold, hard cement. That i am weightless. It makes my “love” a whole lot easier to bear. But that is all that it is and ever will be— pretend.
I know this, and i know it only because halfway through this accelerating bliss, i come to terms that i am in actual fact falling to my death. Then i will realise that this is no swift death. It is long. Drawn out to be made deliberately painful. Ironic, in and of itself, to make me feel so good it hurts. Ironic, that i would never let anyone do such a thing to me, but myself. And each realisation slaps fear in my face with a force that send me reeling off-course. Or rather, back on course. The right course— no matter how temporary.
I would, more than anything, love to love myself enough to save my life. But facts are facts, and the fact here is: I don’t have a parachute. So i’ll watch you pretend to not see me falling. And i’ll hear the silence from none of your screaming. And maybe soon enough, before i crash and burn at 320km/h, your inaction will no longer unsettle my heart.
Because this cycle, is as deadly as it is repetitive. And i have died 365 times a year for as long as anyone should remember. And this is fear, seeping straight from my pores because no realisation has been as raw as this— 320km/h might be too long a wait.