You don’t believe.
Love was a funny thing. You said it yourself, it’s weird.
Out of your words, you said it, you made me reconsider my whole world. From poly to mono, from marriage to divorce, I reconsidered my whole life around a power struggle I already had within myself.
One last kiss, one last hug, cradle to the grave, no explanation other than you can’t be what you think I need you to be? These questions and answers run through my mind, and all I can think about is whether or not I’m alone in here.
There used to be another way. Now it seems like there’s a choice to break, a glass shattered in a napkin, a voyage to a new frontier, as I put my words down on paper one last time. Catharsis, that’s what this all is, and I keep being told, “you should start a journal”, only to reveal that this blog is a journal, and it is me, and yet I’m told to keep doing it. No shit!
Everything dies in time. I repeat that to myself, as I remember that I am stronger than the situation, and though I still hate the city of Fountay Square, I know that if it burns to the ground, I may shed a little tear.
So where am I going with this letter to the angels? I’m reminded of something from my youth, something I carry with me. The opening lines to something you’ve never heard because music is too abrasive, because my trajectory scares most, and so I am reminded.
I leave you now,
To drown in desolation,
Oblivious to no one.
You realized when I left that you were done”
This is my time to go one last look, one last touch, a ghost to the person that said “I love you” first, for once. With the broken floors, with a basement I never saw, a litter box left uncleaned, a home full of messes and a depression that I wanted to help alleviate. My shoulders could carry the load, but instead of giving me a chance, you gave me a shovel.
One thing I know about myself is that if I’m going to dig a grave to die in, I’m digging it myself. I don’t need you or anyone else to do it for me. I will dig, and I will accept the consequences of my own decisions, words, and from what you said, riddles. These are only riddles, these are only masked metaphors and similes if you don’t know me.
No one really knows me that well.
Those that do, get it. Those that stuck around, those that I call friends, that I fly across the country to visit, they know. I speak freely, but everytime I die, I become a ghost without a grave, without a name, so close to seperation, and a remedy that leads to the next episode.
Your skin like winter, now ashes form as I burn the last picture we had together. Of all the people, all the places, you’ve given the power back to a confused romantic. Cherished, gone, scars covered by tears, and here we go again another redemption song for the few that choose to read the words that are typed to a screen. I close my eyes and grieve no longer, instead I dream, because I’ve wiped the memory of you away with this post.
To the angel that lives on Churchman, this one last statement is for you. From 1999, from Liberate Te Ex Inferis, I am given meaning because it was then that I truly started to understand the power of the words that come from my head. Splinters is all we get now. Maybe you’ll remember me, maybe you won’t, what does it matter, you lost a great hope.
So now, I’m free.
Free to be, without worry.
And with that, the sea awaits, for the lighthouse and the ship you gave me as a gift is now in the trash. Alongside the letters and stories I wrote just for you. Back to my boat, back to the ocean, back to doldrums, until a light shines on me and brings me to shore.
To the angel, you’ll never read this. But it wasn’t really about you, it was about me.