I went to bed early last night. Early for me. 12:45ish. But then I woke up at like 5:30. I don't think my body knew how to handle the extra hour or so of sleep.
Now I'm at home. Not at school. Because I was feeling crappy and the Lit test was really hard and I had difficulty focusing. We have our practice AP one tomorrow at 7:30. I am not looking forward to it.
Well, last night, instead of studying, like I promised myself I would, I wrote little snippets of things until I filled up an entire page of blank paper. It looks cool. I would scan it, but my stomach hurts.
I am rambling. Here is some of what I wrote. It's not going to be in paragraphs. Every break is the beginning of something new. You don't have to read it. Just. Here.
--
"Stop. You closing your eyes won't make me go away." He pulled the covers away from my face and bent over me. Angry. "Yeah." My voice was even. There was something so exhausting about even trying to argue anymore. "But keeping them open won't make you stay." He looked at me. Silent. But agreement doesn't need to be spoken aloud. I had lost him. I had lost.
We were tired. Sick and tired of this relentless fight that dragged us with it, had bound our hands and feet to the heart of it. We were dragged on, unable to escape; looking solemnly at each other from across our plain of torture. We did not even know what to do in order to be set free. And so it continued.
It was silent. It always was now. I desperately, quietly talked to you through my silverware. Stabbing my fork through the salad: I hate you. Scraping my knife against the new plate: I need you. Stirring my coffee with a spoon: Please. Please say something. You weren't even eating. It was the epitome of what we had become. This torturous relationship. My silent begging. Your rapt indifference. I wanted to throw my glass against your uncaring face. I wanted to smash my plate against the wall and smile at the sound of it breaking into nonexistence as it echoed everything I didn't have the energy to say. I wanted to shake your head. Grab you by the shoulders and shake, shake, shake you into caring. Shake you from your sleep.
I was beginning to doubt you actually existed. Sitting across this table, being in this tiny apartment, two empty souls rattling around in a room with no exits, it was easy to convince myself that you were make-believe. A grown and [unintelligible handwriting], personal Peter Pan. Flown in through my window and having lost his way in my house, he now haunts me. Restless for escape but afraid to let me know. "Let me out."
I am speaking a different language. Sharing all my incoherent thoughts with someone who is not only incapable of understanding, but incapable of attempting to learn. At least pretend. Why aren't you pretending anymore?
We used to be good together. And then you disappeared. Right out from underneath me. Whoosh. I did not even see your love as it flew out the window and into the cold night air. In weather like this, it has probably reached Japan by now. Too bad there's no lost and found for such misfortune.
It is ineffectual, the way we rattle around this rotten apartment, two angry corpses looking for a way out. Too bad the cobwebs of what used to be have surrounded us. They have trapped us close together and the air is bad for breathing. But here, in this close proximity, in this helpless stalemate, we shall remain. It is a cocoon of love, filled with a newly found hate. To make the days pass by, I'm pretending you don't exist. By the way you pass right by me and look right through me, I know you don't have to pretend.
I wonder if you even realize that I am still here, on my side of the bed. The distance between us is a large, hazardous ocean that has not been crossed in a long, long time. The thought runs briefly through my head. Maybe I am dead. Maybe I am in The Sixth Sense; a ghost incapable of realizing her own death. And all of a sudden, it all makes sense. Your indifference, inability to listen, to understand, to care. You always were afraid of ghosts.
I am holding onto you. You are holding onto her. And even she, in the pretense of being free, is holding onto the thought of her childhood, trying desperately to recapture something that has escaped. (We're all chasing ghosts).
--
Funny the things we would all find hiding in our brains if we only took the time to look. I took the time. I can't say I'm happy with the results.
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