Hemorrhaging
"I hope that now I feel contagious; am I the only place that you've left to go?"
That phase in this relationship marked by an overwhelming attempt at intimate comprehension is over. I'd rather take a bottle and undo my oath than take that which has sprung up so suddenly in mind's eye.
Alexithymiatic predilections are no easier to navigate now than when first we met, and still you expect that the pseudo-strides I've taken make up for the terrorestrial patches I've traversed. I don't know where to go now. I don't know how to preface what I'm feeling with words adequate enough to make you see that certain situations are too important for me to simply "get over." I don't know how to breach a sudden silence created by your frustration and my unwillingness to open. I don't know what's happened to the ease with which I use to speak when conversation between us was remarkably, deliciously feasible. I remain unmoving lest the silent eyes of that frustration turn on me.
You have to know that things are not the same. You have to know that the exquisite "dusty luster" of our relationship is now tinged with things unfamiliar to that of the original. I don't know how to explain the tiny and cacophanous ideas that whirl behind grey eyes when the face seems asleep. I don't know how to tell you that I'm infinitely tired of the dualism tenderness has taken on, of the shortening of fuses at both ends, of the uncomfortable pauses I weather when attempting to draw you into discussion. I don't know how to tell you that I don't know where to go anymore.
The only times that I am completely sure of your feelings are when I'm with you, and even then I'm drawn away from the current occurences by tingling thought-threads looping en mass. The only times when I am not confused are when your arms, eyes, and (partial) attention hold me; if I can't trust anyone else around me, I'd like to be able to trust you...
But who am I to talk about trust? I shattered yours because I was unwillingly to put myself in a position that would cause a moderate amount of discomfort and disconcertion. I am, a this very moment, disconcerted. But really -- who cares?
I am looking for something to make me [never mind]. Get that? Riddles flower with vine-feelings, and I haven't grown any of those in so long. I am shortening more thought-things so that I don't disclose anything else worthy of a scrutinous poring-over.
We're done here.
"Over and over and over again she cries, "don't fall away and leave me to myself"..." Oh, but I'll be the first to tell you that I am left to myself and I enjoy the solitude only she can afford me.
I said...we're done here.
That phase in this relationship marked by an overwhelming attempt at intimate comprehension is over. I'd rather take a bottle and undo my oath than take that which has sprung up so suddenly in mind's eye.
Alexithymiatic predilections are no easier to navigate now than when first we met, and still you expect that the pseudo-strides I've taken make up for the terrorestrial patches I've traversed. I don't know where to go now. I don't know how to preface what I'm feeling with words adequate enough to make you see that certain situations are too important for me to simply "get over." I don't know how to breach a sudden silence created by your frustration and my unwillingness to open. I don't know what's happened to the ease with which I use to speak when conversation between us was remarkably, deliciously feasible. I remain unmoving lest the silent eyes of that frustration turn on me.
You have to know that things are not the same. You have to know that the exquisite "dusty luster" of our relationship is now tinged with things unfamiliar to that of the original. I don't know how to explain the tiny and cacophanous ideas that whirl behind grey eyes when the face seems asleep. I don't know how to tell you that I'm infinitely tired of the dualism tenderness has taken on, of the shortening of fuses at both ends, of the uncomfortable pauses I weather when attempting to draw you into discussion. I don't know how to tell you that I don't know where to go anymore.
The only times that I am completely sure of your feelings are when I'm with you, and even then I'm drawn away from the current occurences by tingling thought-threads looping en mass. The only times when I am not confused are when your arms, eyes, and (partial) attention hold me; if I can't trust anyone else around me, I'd like to be able to trust you...
But who am I to talk about trust? I shattered yours because I was unwillingly to put myself in a position that would cause a moderate amount of discomfort and disconcertion. I am, a this very moment, disconcerted. But really -- who cares?
I am looking for something to make me [never mind]. Get that? Riddles flower with vine-feelings, and I haven't grown any of those in so long. I am shortening more thought-things so that I don't disclose anything else worthy of a scrutinous poring-over.
We're done here.
"Over and over and over again she cries, "don't fall away and leave me to myself"..." Oh, but I'll be the first to tell you that I am left to myself and I enjoy the solitude only she can afford me.
I said...we're done here.
posted by Ophelia at 11:32 PM
1 Comments:
To change is the nature of existing. But it does not mean we are powerless.
For me, this procedure works best:
1. Accepted something, what ever it may be has changed some how.
2. Determine from this new view point of acceptance, what can be done on your part.
Not that I dream I say anything you have not heard or known before, but still they are the best words I can offer up.
Matt
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