You’ll leave too.

“Why do you have your walls up?”

“Because.
The walls…

they help, I think.”

They keep people out. You come and go as you want — no obligations, no consequences. Just distance. No one gets hurt like this. Everyone leaves.

“But do you believe in it?”

Mostly.

Sometimes, you meet someone.

And for some reason you want them to stay.

 

 

 

They won’t stay.


“I think I want it to stay” – City of Stars

 

 

‘Okay’

“Okay.”

“What is?”

“Excuse me?”

“You keep saying that, but really, what is it that’s so okay?”

I used to know. Nowadays, I’m not so sure.

I’ve always had a problem with feelings. It’s not that I don’t feel, or that I don’t know what I feel — I do know, I do. But sometimes I think I know it too well that I just don’t allow them to surface because why should they? Why should they affect other people. Nothing good would ever come out of it now, would it?

I can’t see you today
Okay.

I think I’m in love with someone else
Okay.

Take care
Okay.

Love yourself
Okay.

Are you okay?
I’m okay. I will be.

“I don’t know. It’s an acknowledgement, Isnt it? To you, to me.”

Especially me. Especially me.  Maybe by saying ‘okay’, I get to distance myself from any possible disappointment – self preservation of the future self (it’s stupid). It’s stupid. Nothing good comes out from this. Nothing has. Maybe when I say ‘okay’, I’m really just telling myself that I should be.

I cant see you today
But I was really looking forward to see you.

I think I’m in love with someone else
I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough.

Take care
People only say that; I’ll pretend you mean it.

Love yourself
How?

Are you okay?
I’m happy, I’m afraid it’ll all go away.

Are you okay?
No.

Are you okay?
I’ve learnt that, it doesn’t matter.

“An acknowledgement of what?”

“Of all the things I don’t say.”

some days

Some days you just need to shut yourself up. You shut yourself up because you care too much – about everything and everyone and you know that when that happens, you lose so much of yourself.

So much, you want to hit yourself with a metal chair over and over and over and watch yourself deform into a gross set of skin and bones.

Some days you need to stop feeling because every day is both a reduction and an overcompensation. For some possibly self-obsessed reason, people always seem to hurt you even when they’re not.

Some days.

Some days you hope too and it destroys you. 

 

Our Story

There we were. Round table, three chairs. Every month we’d be there – the same lonely café. I didn’t like the place for obvious reasons; this was after all, your neighborhood. But Ann liked the concept. Loose tea leaves, coffee with toasted marshmallows, natural sunlight through glass walls. Plus, there was a pleasantly great lack of people. It was a good place to write. It was a good place to think.

Continue reading “Our Story”

Sweet scandal

“How could you do it?”

Do you really think I wanted to? Sleep with a woman I didn’t know, tend to their physical and emotional needs, detach my self? I have good reasons for the drama I choose – reasons you will never know of nor understand.

You see, there is no such thing as detaching the self.

You close your eyes and kiss someone. You don’t think about the someone, you think about how your lips feel against another, you think about the softness that resonates with your inner want. Your fingers will stroke their skin and it isn’t their skin or their reaction that strikes you, but how there is another body waiting for your touch. Only your touch. And halfway through God knows, you’ll be staring at the hotel ceiling trying to figure out if this is what you enjoy.

And you take parts of them. The whispers that escape them, the smell of their perfume, the way their body arches. Even the way they sit and take their coffee. They become a part of your memory. You carry them in every breath and in every bed you hop into. Your last thoughts will always be how they’ve caressed your face and pulled you closer.

You see, there will always be the self. The other people. The memory.

And no matter how much you tell yourself, it’ll hurt.


Ha. ha. ha.. clearly I’m not cut out for a certain kind of writing

the stories i write

“So tell me! What do you read? What do you write?”

Romance? The word felt a little off on my tongue. Romance, really? Is that what I’ve been writing? The stories between you and I, the alternatives of what we could have been… I think the proper word is longing. But romance came out anyway.

“Im guessing you have loved a lot!”

“Maybe it’s not about how many people I have loved… but how I’ve loved one person enough.”

Because in all of my stories, all of them, there is a little bit of you. Maybe you are that one story I can never close a book on. Maybe you are that one story I will never be able to truly tell.

This Isn’t Me

“No…”

Dr. Hopen raised his eyebrow. He didn’t expect Layne to react that way.

“No!” Her voice exasperated, “No, I don’t have this. I don’t want it!”

“The first step is acceptance, Layne.”

She was shaking in her chair, covering her eyes with her left hand. She breathed in and held her breath before her words could escape again.

“Have you ever considered,” she breathed, “That this is not the person I ever wanted to be?”

She wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had to be stronger. Someone confident, someone who’s sure, someone other people could look to. The circumstances she was in – there were only so little possibilities. But she wanted to be like her superheroes, she wanted to be like her favourite people, she wanted to prove to everyone that she was abled. That she could live the life she wanted in spite of every other obstacle. Obstacles that needed only one solution – because that’s how life should be right? Problems, solutions, done. She could handle problems that had straightforward solutions.

But now… tiny spaces start to haunt her, crowded places seem to choke her, she can’t carry out her day because the trains or the busses lack any escape. She can’t decide if life is compressing her down to every breath – because every breath is now calculated, counted for five seconds – or if life is blurring out. Because every time it happens, she sees everything all at once: tree, building, person, sign, words, shadows. And when it doesn’t happen, all she can think of is when the next one will be. If she would be ready for it. She knows she needs all her things be ready for it. Rubber band, plastic bag, smelling salts – embarrassing things she wished she didn’t have to bring every single day. She’s embarrassed of what she has to do, how she has to plan out every ‘escape route’ to every environment. Where the nearest toilet is, which exit would be most accessible. Problems, problems, problems. Dr. Hopen had told her that the solutions take practice. They won’t work all the time. The problems, they don’t completely go away. And for Layne, that was just something she couldnt fathom living with.

“I just… I’ve always had a good picture of the person I wanted to be.”


This wasnt it.

What we tell ourselves

“Layne.”

She hears it. She hears her name being called, spoken softly between her ears. She hears it as she falls asleep, as she sits in silence, as she’s alone. It’s almost comforting. Almost. There is some warmth in self preservation.

It echoes through her veins, the voice of everyone before and everyone after. All focused on a present singularity. And Layne would faintly look down, registering what she’s heard. So much can be heard in a syllable; you are fine, I am proud of you, you are loved enough. 

It almost works.


IMG_2193.JPG Sometimes, it feels like our very own headspace is far too compromised. Maybe that’s when we need to learn how to comfort ourselves?