About me / First love / Life / Love / Thoughts

A lie. I hope a lie.

I’m confused. I’m frightened. I am wide awake with wonder, or is it worry?
So many questions… where to begin?
Why?
Why does it disturb me so much to think… to even think that if I left right now, right this minute, and never witnessed any pain, that I would feel no pain?
Why is this amazingly decent vision so easily discarded for me? Why do I find myself passing other visions so easily before my mind? Why couldn’t I do this then? Why can I do it now? Why is it so easy?
That time. The only time. I harbored a vision, however briefly, of a door. Pain stopped me. But whose? Was it really?
Why can’t I breathe? Why are my eyes filling so quickly? Why do I have to write? It’s been so long since my fingers ached this way. Now I’m worried. Why do they ache now? So out of character. The thought, a lie?, scares me. I can’t move.
What does this mean to me? Nothing. It means nothing. That thought, the truth?, scares me too. I can’t move. I don’t want to breathe.
It means nothing. I can’t deny that. What if I want it to?
Were they excuses? What I said so long ago? Or was it real? Did I feel something that worried me, but choose to disregard it? So quickly. It was fear. Was it? I didn’t want to go. Did I? I thought it was a game. It’s true. I thought I made it all up to amuse myself. But was it a game my mind and I played? One that I could have lost? Is that possible? I thought I had made up the joke, but was it real? Once again, I’m terrified.
Suddenly, disturbingly, I feel I have to talk to her. As dubious as it must be, I have been most honest with her. I’ve let her see me more completely, held nothing back, not spared her feelings. Why her? so illogical.
Why this, why now?
What brought this on?
Why her? Maybe my mind lied again to me… maybe I wanted to hurt her. No. I felt her pain as intensely as I felt my own. Then why be so honest? I never tried to spare her feelings. Just once, but that was to save my shame… and her pain. No, no want to cause pain. A need to be honest. I know I’m right.
Why writing? Why now? Why am I going to cry? Why does writing this show me so completely what I don’t want to see? That’s part of it. I wrote to her. My mind tricked me so completely. I needed to be honest, yes; but even more so, I needed to be honest to her.
Why am I writing now? Why does this written text lie so naked? Other things I have written don’t. I mull them over, make them pretty. No that’s new. Not this. I can’t. It almost hurts to stall. At the same time, it almost hurts not to write the whole process. I shake with every pause. It’s as if my mind doesn’t believe itself. Like it can deny what’s it’s producing unless I put it on paper. Like I have to face it in print.
Why writing?! It’s been years since I felt this ache. I’ve written, of course, but not out of need. Out of fascination, want to forbear jealousy, frustration, and out of forced effort to feel the ache again.
Why do I need this honesty? That’s what it is isn’t it? A need for honesty. Terror washes over my relief before I can even feel it. No it’s not the same. So unbearably different. The old draw I felt was so different. Yes, it kept me up at night, had it’s share of fear and pain, but it was so different.
I listen to the clocks ticking. The truth bears down on me. I can’t bring myself to write it. Detached.
Is it the truth or a lie. My mind has lied to me before. Oh please let tonight be a lie.
As my eyes fill with thousands of images, it overflows with reckless curiosity. Then the undeniable certainty. The undeniable certainty that I wish I possessed.
But there’s nothing wrong. But everything is wrong. For a second, I wish that anything was wrong. How cruel my mind is. Was it always? No. It’s not now either. Right?
Utter silence. I can’t stand to be alone this way. Alone with cruel me. But is it cruel? I have to ask. Selfish surely. Even my guiltiest pleasure reading doesn’t try to deny that. So selfish.
Yes. That’s why this means nothing. It means nothing because I chose this to be selfless. That’s it of course. Writing is my pure selfishness. If it’s not in words I can’t contain it. I already feel relief. I already feel the tiredness that should have sunk in hours ago. Is that a lie? It is.
I close my eyes to breathe in the peace. Bad idea. My mind without reality to temper it is a pit of selfishness. I used to wallow in it. I knew it well. It all makes sense now. All of it. My lips curl into a cruel smile. So that’s how I found me. And where.
Now I’m scared. Utterly terrified.
Why this, why now? What does it mean?

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