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The Crux of Deserving.

There has been a lot of talk about deserving lately. It has all been about who deserves what or who, and how there's some people that will never deserve the unconditional love others are offering up at no price. You can talk endlessly about deserving really, but I've found that it has never made much of a difference to simply talk about it or comment on it briefly, as is so often the case. He may not deserve her, but she still wants him despite his many flaws and abuse. You can even tell her that he doesn't deserve her, and you can absolutely bleed yourself to the point of exsanguination just trying to convey to her the extent in which she deserves more than someone who will hurt her and use her and make her feel like she has less worth than actual nothingness, but it may never make a difference. The worst part is that she might even come to agree with you eventually. There's even a chance she will admit she's worth more than how she allows herself to be treated, but don't think for a moment that this epiphany is going to be enough for her to actually make a change. If there is anything I have learned in the seemingly ceaseless conversation about deserving, it's that the people who do not deserve us are often the people who we wish did. This is perhaps why people are so apt to wait with wasted hopes for the day when the undeserving bunch finally prove that they are, in fact, deserving of the pathetically desperate efforts put forth and proverbial miles walked just to keep smiles on their faces. They wait, and they do so through unappreciative stagnation, unrequited affection, and cyclical disappointment and neglect. And for what? There is often no resolution to this plight. It is all ruts and toxic patterns. Another thing that I have discovered in these repetitive comments involving deserving is that there is no precise quantification or exact qualification for deserving, but it seems to me that we can begin to rudimentarily define it by whomever seems as if they are always the ones who have lost while the other party continues to gain at the other's expense. Most people know when they are being used, but if they are truly unaware, there is a good chance an outsider would be capable of identifying the abuse occuring. Therefore, lack of deserving cannot be a factual science or an absolute calculable factor, rather something that can be commented on as an opinion if observed. That's why it's hard to really say who deserves what or who and why. Maybe it's also why simply commenting that someone deserves better has a less than expectedly substantial effect. The concept of deserving is just an opinion that can be accepted or rejected, as everyone perceives situations and instances separately. We must each individually define the rules of deserving as they apply to ourselves. Unfortunately, the crux of deserving is that more often than not people have such low opinions of themselves to the point in which they feel they don't deserve all that much whatsoever. As a result, they become complacent with being treated like a projection of how they view themselves. This is the genesis of a specific type of abuse that goes unresolved as a result of lack of action. Honestly appraising and valuing oneself properly might be the most important key in preventing the entire circumstance of abuse and subsisting in situations and relationships in which more is deserved but never sought out. My conclusion regarding deserving: significantly more might be accomplished by emphasizing self-worth in a non-abrasive manner than by exclusively drawing people's attention to the potentially unshared opinion that they deserve more. However, I'm unsure whether there is a remedy for this issue when so many people have fallen into these traps because of their pitiful and small opinions of themselves. I fear the conversation about deserving will continue as long as people are willing to put up with less than they deserve because they inaccurately believe it is just.

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A Rather Cursory Interlude.

Upon your door mat, footprints worn by the soles of my shoes lay like a permanent reminder of how long I have spent waiting for you to open the door.

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White Noise.

I turn on my fan to regulate the temperature of my small living space. At first the sound it outputs is quite audible, perceptibly noticeable even. The noise hums in my ear, and I can contest that it is a different vibration than the silence. I'm not even sure if it's pleasant. The more I think of the noise, the more my mind picks it apart and dissembles it's intricacies. It's almost grating to my ears. Luckily I find distractions as time continues to press on incessantly, and soon my brain is less consumed with the droning noise. That's when I lose track of it all together. Unbeknownst to me, the white noise becomes just another neutral sensation that is quarantined to the back of my consciousness.

I stop paying mind to it whatsoever.

The incident reminds me of you and I, and our own white noise; except I know for certain that it was the other way around in our case. I can recall in the beginning, my lenses were colored rosy anytime you graced my line of sight, and perhaps I even donned blinders which prevented me from utilizing my periphery to sense your flaws. This was a period of desensitization. White noise. I pushed the red flags and bothersome facets of our plotlines to the background until I regarded them neutrally and failed to recognize that there was anything malignant actually going on. I would even brush over the bad with shallow reassurances, often telling you that your sins didn't bother me, that your lack of prioritization never made me feel neglected or like you didn't love me. In a way I saw this as unconditional love. I accepted you, and in turn, I accepted the burden of your selfishness upon my back with an open heart and a smile on my face. In my selflessness I felt like a saint, but I see now how you leeched onto my willingness to put you first and bled me dry of everything I had haphazardly offered up.

Perhaps this is the burden of saints.

I often wonder now how you justify treating me like you do, and I think I've finally come to a logical solution. It must have been that you saw there was no risk of losing me, and the lack of risk became your cue to proceed mindlessly and take more than you managed to give. You took my time, my waning innocence, my means to survive, my independence, my nights of sufficient sleep, and most of all, you took my pride away. But to me it was all love, white noise, so I failed to wonder why you couldn't find it in yourself to put me first like I did for you.

However, little by little the change occurred, almost imperceptibly with the passing time, and my desensitization began to lessen until I was finally capable of identifying injustices where they existed. I was no longer ignorant to any wrongs, and more so as this plot progressed, I became frustrated that I had allowed it to be this way for so long without taking a moment to value myself over you even once. I called it love then, and I don't doubt that it was, but I do believe that I must have loved you to a fault. My own fault, certainly. Before long, I became aware of my rampant discontent and overwhelming sense that something was out of place and wrong. I suppose it could have been the both of us just by being together, if you believe that. That's not to say I didn't love you or that I don't love you now. I think that there isn't a more profound exhibit of adoration than what I feel for you, but through the white noise I perceived something to end my disillusions and ignorance that were commonplace in my prior deafness and silly romanticism.

I perceived my own self, suffering in what seemed to be my perpetual efforts to maintain your delight.

This refreshing clarity helped me to revise my mindset. Now I at least recognize that I shouldn't be waiting around to be the most convenient option like some type of obligatory being. I'm worth more than allowing myself to be a second choice when there's only so much time and so little fun to be had in the grand scheme of our lives. I know all of this, yet as I clench my fists tightly, forming a vice-like grip upon my steering wheel as the hum of the circulatory air system fades into background white noise, I know without a doubt in my mind that I wouldn't take the risk of expressing any contempt in fear of losing all of this. It is in this way that this whole ordeal is my own hypocritical fault. I let myself be used and my time undervalued, and for that, I am to blame for any tears or unhappiness I may feel.

I arrive home, my cheeks wet as I wallow in every bad emotion that I haven't collectively found myself capable of naming, and I wonder if it's all worth feeling pathetic as I do. I wonder this, and I think to myself how I will never be able to fess up and tell you about my drives home in near silence, save for the white noise of my air and the consistency of my engine running, and how these drives are sometimes accompanied by precipatory emotion in your wake. It's my fault for putting up with it. I've told myself that so many times, and I would assure you of that forever if I needed to. I know you'll never change, and you know I'll never leave. It is therefore my fault for deluding myself and expecting you to love me equally. I stick to this logic as if I'm bound in my own deceptively set trap, and I do not attempt to free myself from it. At this point, I make an effort to dry my tears because they fall quickly if unchecked, but for the most part, I wipe them away because I believe it's futile to cry over something I could have prevented if I had taken the time to really give a damn about my emotional well-being. So I stop crying, and I push the thoughts and the discontent to the back of my mind, praying to forces above myself that perhaps this will all become comfortable, ignorantly blissful white noise once more.

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Head.

He pushed me down like it was warranted, as if down was the only direction in which my femininity could ever lead me. I wore my shackles of predestination like a queen amidst a new revolution, gracefully on parade before her people, condemned, but strong and undeviating from maintaining a pretense of honorability. Like the queen’s, my eyes remained affixed forward, my chin high. I don't doubt that the townspeople would have jeered and reached hungry fists out to touch me as I neared the guillotine, just as they did to her. With precisely this mindset was I sat in the theater with him, and he was much like the townspeople: all hungry greedy fists and fat fingers upon my skin despite my wishes to be left alone. I postured myself with indifference, and attempted to stay cool as I roasted in my own personal hell that was this moment I recount now. Again he pushed me, sticky fingers tangled up in my hair as he forced my head down in submission, and I felt his grip in the same way a condemned queen might have felt as her neck rested upon the frame of the guillotine, with her head positioned below the shimmering blade, awaiting it's descent. I saw no difference between the two. I was condemned to a fate of allowing such atrocities to occur without putting up a fight, a reality that would surely cause me to lose my head eventually. As he finally released his hand from the back of my skull with ungrateful resignation and a crude remark about my inconvenient prudence, I wondered if and when the world would change.

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The Absolutely Arcane, yet Arguably Archetypal Affliction of the Abominable Arachnid.

I forge my web of thick silk. The toiling and terrific effort that go into the process are only a means to survive, though I suppose that's all anything is in retrospect. It's all a means to prolong our menial existences for as long as possible, and when it's no longer possible to remain in existence, we seek to leave behind something as proof or qualification that our lives were worth something. Maybe that's why I spin a web so loyally.

When I've finished, I wait here, atop of my newly constructed fortress of sinew, and wonder after the meaning of it all. I wonder what I'm really waiting for, and whether I'm wasting my time putting in so much effort and waiting for something that can be considered so arbitrary. I have a lot of time, and nothing quite fills the time like these questions prodding around in my mind uncomfortably. Sometimes it gets to feeling like I do so much for no real reason, but I must be a glutton for punishment, because some part of me retains a small collection of hope for fulfillment that these patterns never manifest. Oh, but I’ve spun a nice web this time. I have decorated the space like a cleverly created invitation, and I let my efforts do the rest of the work for me. I hope that the invitation is well-met and conveys the totality of my intentions. It's a not-so-subtle advertisement of my primal needs, laced with potent and undeniable pheromones to thoroughly intoxicate. Full-heartedly, I pray it's enough to attract and entice, but also enough to be appreciated and prioritized in some way. And that's what I wait for.

I lose track of how much time has passed during my waiting, but you come along at some point, like the godsend I've been waiting for, and I try not to expect too much forthrightly. However, I must admit that I am full of hope the instant you enter my line of sight. I watch you, deluded by the promise of company perhaps, and I hardly consider the toxicity of everything occurring. Instead of you, it is I who becomes silly off of my own deceptive trap, and you remain calm as you scour my hard work destructively. You begin by reducing it's grandness a bit at a time. Sporadically, you snip the tendrils of web that compromise my magnum opus and blanket it with your own masking signature. You turn it into a ratty, messy thing that appears haphazard and rushed. All remnants of my efforts are vanquished in your wake. I've been through this before, but I am so profoundly deluded, to the extent in which I believe that the sacrifice could be worth having you. So I watch as my web is dismantled ungracefully, all of its many intricacies dashed from their rightful places as you fulfill your role precisely, as you must. I try not to let it get to me.

When you have finished reducing me as severely as you please, you approach me coyly and unapologetically, expressing your interest blatantly. Some part of me has longed to be possessed by someone else I think. I yearn for a sense of belonging in some capacity, so perhaps that is why I don't deny you when you make your intentions so obvious. You spin another web, not so careful and calculated as my own was, and you do so around my being. I am bound like prey, captured, and you are the predator. Meanwhile, I begin to resent myself, for I know that I am the one who let this happen. I let you make your mark and reduce my grandiose until it was unrecognizable, and then I fell for my own lies and unrealistic expectations based upon unwarranted hope. In my sudden clarity and newfound rage, I seek justice. I consume you; I end you, just as you have consumed my innocence and ended every last remnant of hope from my sullied perspective.

When you are no more, I feel liberated, but I am not drunk off of empowerment. For as I perch atop of my fractured web, I gaze upon the destruction and dark reality left in your wake, and it may very well be the most sobering moment of my life. I consider what may come next for me, and I cannot come up with anything other than a new beginning as a means to depart from the present. I know I am foolish for this, but there's not much else to life except to keep on pursuing survival the only way I know how. I begin to construct a new web, and I conceptualize that I am the one who will become irrevocably trapped in it.

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Mars in Retrograde.

I gesture to the sky during one of our nightly walks in early August. You're walking beside me, grasping my hand comfortably. You follow the path that my outreached hand has set forth, until your eyes find the bright red dot igniting the midnight sky. I tell you it's Mars, and you are more disinterested than I could have possibly anticipated. Still, it excites me to know what I'm actually looking at when I regard the night sky, even if you don't share in my intrigue. At this point in early August, the visibility of Mars to this extent, a rare occurrence, has begun to wane and wither. In the coming days, it will lose its prominence in the night sky all together, until it is just another unidentifiable speck amongst every other star. I'll mark it's slow decay from brilliance as each consecutive night comes and goes, and all the while I'll compare its current state to its former magnificence. Some part of me wishes it could just stay this way forever, but I'm not naive enough to ever truly expect anything like that from reality. Change is inevitable, as life circumstances will go to show, so I don't spend too long dwelling on an eternally brilliant planet. It would be a waste of energy to wish that upon a fading Mars or any of the other dead stars. So I continue on, allowing Mars to depart from my mind much like it's prominence in the sky. Meanwhile, you are preoccupied expressing some thought that I feel ashamed to admit that I might have entirely missed during my ponderings, and I regard you similarly to Mars for a fraction of a moment in our shared existence. In the days to come, I anticipate that I will also be made to experience our comfortable reality in an inevitable retrograde. I can see it beginning to occur now, as the stress in your tone of voice has already noticeably sullied and weighed down your usual lightness. I plead with unknowable forces that you will not become as indiscernible to me as Mars is destined to be, yet I can realistically imagine that it's a possibility for such a thing to occur. Perhaps I know by now not to expect a miracle, for I consider and fear that I may lose you in the night sky amongst all of the other meaningless configurations of stars past their expiration dates. Our walk is coming to a finish, as these things always do, and when I look to you I find myself unable to think of anything but Mars in retrograde. My heart begins to break.

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A Poet's Exploration Into the Composition of Color.

It seems to me that the colors my eyes perceive are twice as vivid as the colors which appear in my dreams.

For as I fritter the hours watching the clouds morph from shapeless forms into birds or trees, I begin to get the sense that nothing could be more vibrant than reality.

Hues of green meet gradient blues inexplicably and inseparably as I watch the atmosphere touch the Earth,

And suddenly I begin to wonder after the compositions of color and their worth.

Musing for an unlikely answer, my poet's mind continues wandering,

Disregarding what I know of science in exchange for flowery thoughts and romantic ponderings.

I wonder whether there is some unspoken recipe to attain the unreplicable hue of the evening sky,

And I contemplate if there is perhaps an ingredient necessary to contrive the precise shade of my lover's eyes.

I would pay sums to fathom the deepest shades of these blades of grass dancing languidly in the breeze,

If only to understand what green truly is beneath the color I usually so mindlessly perceive.

I would give a thousand dreams and nights of restful sleep to entomb myself within budding yellows and pinks,

Where new life and beginnings find themselves welcomed and nurtured in this eternal spring.

When my mind returns from it's lengthy exploration,

I conclude that my feelings for you bear a compelling resemblance to my vibrant fascination.

For like the hues of this awakened spring, I yearn to know you deeper than what can be seen.

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The Best Kind of Fix.

In the eyes of my only love I see a thousand or more words in a thousand or more languages. I seek to contrive the means to say these words in a language we will both understand, but fail miserably in my translations. Instead I say “I love you”, and that seems to be enough for now. Perhaps spoken word is not enough to embody a single gaze held between two spirits intertwined both body and mind. I think this, and grin in consequence having conceptualized that such a love exists so attainably. Eventually I feel the muscles in my face seize up and tire from overuse, but I can do nothing but smile as my brain gets drunk on happy hormones. I can almost feel the exquisite firing of my neurotransmitters as they relay emotions like ecstasy, love, joy, elation, comfort, and bliss throughout my being and out through a kiss onto the lips of my only love. For now I am high off of the addictive rush of dopamine and serotonin and endorphins running rampant through my bloodstream. It's a funny feeling though my fingers and toes, and if I had any doubts before about whether I had a soul, I am no longer conflicted, because I can undoubtedly feel the motion and sheer giddiness of these chemicals flow in my abstract self, much like intoxication. I am sober, yet I feel so drunk off of that smile and radiance, and I wouldn't exchange this fix for any other kind in the world.

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A New Theme (how love has rendered me incapable of writing morosely).

I am at a loss for the words to really say how I feel, and without the power to justifiably express the extent of the depth of this crazy inevitable-feeling love. I use this word as a crutch to convey something much broader than language can embody, for love is honestly too small of a word for the largeness of this vice-like hold that you've got on my entire everything. I am both weakened and strengthened by how tightly it holds me, and I know if you let go now I would face certain and inescapable exsanguination by the void left in your piercing and gaping absence. It is in this way in which I subsist vulnerably at your mercy, awaiting either the fatal withdrawal or crushing pressure and unbridled intensity to bring about an end that I guarantee I'll never be ready for.

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A Poem That Speaks For Itself.

Forlorn as you subsist through the good old days, Lost in your digression as what's meant to be fades. You can't manipulate your fortune from behind the scenes, You can't take back the things you wish you'd never seen. From where we stood, to where we sit when we can no longer stand, You're too far to hear my truth or take my hand. I'll try to find a way if your patience is requital, Through the misshapen realities, we see these passions belittled.

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An Analysis of the Speculative Motives Behind Melting Ice Blocks.

Days ago I watched in rapt and content attention while a block of ice melted on an electronic screen. All the while I realized the patheticness of my frittering and sedentary complacency, but did nothing to reroute my intentions. As predicted, the ice melted, which I suppose was inevitable really, but when it was done and only an anticlimactic puddle remained, I found myself searching for meaning in the utter obscurity. Just the fact that I had voluntarily watched a block of ice turn to a puddle on the ground should have been meaningfully meaningless enough… Oh, what people are willing to do to feel connected to something larger than themselves… Nevertheless, I could not be bothered to consider this forthrightly, so I searched for hidden meaning for some time, wondering if I had witnessed some kind of subtle activism for the melting of icecaps, or perhaps the ice reduced to moisture on the ground was some type of backwards activism for water conservation. I even pondered whether there was a metaphor to be found within the gesture of melting ice blocks for a live audience. Unsurprisingly, I contrived nothing but perplexion, and perhaps that was the intention of the mastermind. Perhaps the mastermind wanted his devout audience to question themselves and their undying loyalty; to provoke thought on the matter of why one would be willing to watch ice melt, an activity as fruitless as watching grass grow or paint dry. I suppose there is such a thing as being too loyal, such as the case in this particular circumstance. Once I came to this conclusion I felt foolish for using my limited time to watch the ice melt and for then trying to contrive exuberant meaning from my experience, but I ultimately came to a refined conclusion. That is, I recalled the human tendency to search for meaning in randomness or perceive patterns in chaos. I suspect that was the primal drive behind my incessant crusade to procure meaning from a seemingly meaningless event. I was simply exercising my humanity through my capability for reasoning and abstract thought. The beauty of evolved and advanced mental processing was what gave meaning to melting ice blocks on a concrete floor. Initially, I had resented that I had been content to watch the ice melt, believing my attention and time to be sacred, and feeling betrayed by myself that I had allocated it so meaninglessly. Even so, watching ice turn to liquid water gave me a chance to reflect for a short lapse of time. I was able to slow down and think, and that was certainly worthwhile for me. However, I do feel that endlessly striving to attach meaning to melting ice and the like is not a serving practice in every context; there are other matters our attention and efforts could highly benefit from. In my time, I wish to eventually contribute more than an analysis of the speculative motives behind melting ice blocks.

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To Dive into Shallow Waters.

For a moment I could see you as you see yourself. In that moment your blood had pulsed and flowed thick with unquantifiable depth and heroic resignation. It could not be accurate, because when I ventured to reach in with tremulously enraptured hands I discovered your soul to be quite a shallow thing. My wandering and hopeful fingers were halted by the superficiality of your spirit; a brick wall where profundity had once been promised eliminated the prospect of multidimensionality beyond it. Looking at it now, I can imagine the birth of the facade as you happened upon your own reflection in the mirror at just the right (or wrong) angle, the clever light playing on your eyes deceivingly, causing you to see more than what in truth is there. Is it possible to perceive depth in the shallows of self-diffidence? I know nothing of how it came to be, how you came to justify defining yourself with poetry and pretty words that speak of depth you so obviously lack, but I recognize it as I recognize day from night, the sun from the moon, or my own face from those of strangers in an unfamiliar crowd. I recognize it, and remind myself with perpetuated wisdom that diving into shallow water is in no circumstance a sensible action. You subsist calmly and oblivious as I regard your pretense, an illusion still discernibly deluded. I do not dive.

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The Blinker: My North Star.

Yesterday I noticed a surprising amount of vehicles who had their blinkers on for prolonged amounts of time, completely unnoticed by the drivers. For that reason I kept my distance, not sure what else said-drivers would fail to notice. Their forgotten blinkers were flashing like little yellow strobe lights, dancing in my periphery as we all sped towards our destinations on this late spring evening. To pass the time I placed internal bets on how long it would take these drivers to notice their errors and correct themselves. It was a futile game I suppose. One car in particular, easily going over the designated speed limit, migrated to the fast lane, all while parading their left blinker for the majority of my journey. The error was entirely unbeknownst to the driver, as if there was somewhere more to the left they could go other than the concrete center divider on this meandering freeway. I hated to think such ugly, disturbing thoughts, but figured I had a right to really. As the sun set in ribbons of evening hues, it began to annoy me. Although the car was far ahead of my own, the little yellow light blinking and pulsing was persistent and entrancing, distracting and almost hypnotizing. I willed the driver to turn it off, and sighed, wholly exasperated at the carelessness of the common man. However, in some miniscule way I understood, knowing carelessness was human nature, not some foreign concept which dragged the worst of us down into inferiority and resulted in error. I recognized that this mistake, this ringing blinker vexingly floating like blurry fairy lights in my line of vision, was simply a casualty of the human tendency. To error is only natural. In some way that made it less grating in the hour of nightfall wherein I began to feel heavy with a day’s worth of exhaustion, but even so the harsh light still inspired a degree of annoyance. I could not help but feel a little irritated really. When I started to exit the freeway at last, I offhandedly noticed that the blinker finally ceased and turned off, coincidental, but a great relief I suppose. It was at that point in which I found myself only able to think of the blinker, not as pestilent, but as my guide, my north star, the flickering fairy lights that carried me home.

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Nostalgia, My Friend.

“365,” you lament, shaking, almost unsure. “What?” I question, feeling disoriented. “365. That is how many days I spent missing you the last year.” “But I’ve been here,” I assert, disbelief weighing unfathomably upon the lines of my face. “No, not you so much in the way you might be thinking, not physically. I miss the way you were before, full of hope, full of aspiration and resiliency to keep on no matter the obstacle before you. I miss the way you once were. From my perspective, you’re indistinguishable now. It’s been too long and you’re not even you anymore,” you struggle, voice breaking off near the end as if you know the words you speak split me in two. I stare at some spot on the ceiling above me, a smudge most likely. I let my eyes bore into the spot and tether me to this reality so that I will not flee. This hurts me. “I’m me. I haven’t changed at all. How can you say that? I don’t understand,” I state softly to the air in front of me, allowing my eyes to meet yours in the mirror. These are eyes I recognize as my own, but your voice, my voice, and some segment of my psyche knows that these eyes have changed. I thought I knew myself, yet you provide otherwise. I frown, a expression directed at you, a strange entity within myself that is bothered by the ways in which I have evolved for better and for worse. “Of course you can’t see it,” you start, choosing your words as if they bind eternally. “You’re just too close… and maybe I’m too far away and that’s why it bothers me so. I see it because I observe, but I do so from a reasonable distance. All I am saying is that I miss you, and I wish you would return… however I know that is not possible, and I’m sorry you have become so lost to me.” I realize then what part of myself that you are, finally letting your sadness and longing momentarily flood the space around me so that I may understand. You are nostalgia, my friend. You are the part of me that cannot let go, no matter how much effort I put forth to try. You are the ghost, the emotion that mourns the present as it recedes and morphs into the past. I meet eyes with myself once more in the mirror before me, and to my surprise I see you clearly, as recognizable as joy, but obviously far more demure. I wonder what I can say to you; I wonder what may soothe your unobtainable pining for everything behind us, and I settle for the simplest of options. “I am you, and you are me, and that will never change. When you feel lost and diluted look to the memories we have archived. There is no shame in reminiscing, I assure you. But do not be sad; think of all that is to come. Think of the new memories that are to be made for you and I that you may someday long for. Nostalgia, my friend, you will never lose yourself as long as there are such a thing as memories.” You seem to think this is acceptable, as the calamity in my soul finally feels somewhat soothed. Your voice within me has at last become hushed and satisfied for the time being, a victory as far as I am concerned. I turn from the mirror, moving on from the moment, filing the instance into my memory just for you.

[profoundyetinarguablyuseles-blog]

A Sentiment Past It's Expiration.

“I would have rather it been me,” I think, as if it makes up for everything we have put ourselves through. I know it does not, but if you could hear me now I would still tell you that I should have carried the weight for the both of us. Double the weight, double the sacrifice, however I imagine that you would have likely protested. Even so, I would have done it all for you if I could just go back with this newly-shattered perspective. “I should have,” I whisper, but that sentiment has long passed it’s expiration date. I try to tell you these things anyways, irrevocably making sounds unmet. “This should have been me, not you,” I maintain again and again, but it is hopeless and in vain. “I’m sorry,” I proclaim, but I cannot place whether I am apologizing for something in specific or for every single thing that inevitably led to the moment these strained words left my mouth. You turn to me in my dreams as I sleep, an unwelcome visitor in a fabricated illusion, bringing me only falsified hope. I begin to tell you that I will make up for it here, but stop when I realize that I am dreaming, and wonder what the point is if none of this is real. Instead, I say “goodbye,” and you wear confusion like it was tailor-made for you. It seems no matter how vehemently I bid you adieu, you return to make significant cameos in my insignificant imaginings. I sigh each time you materialize, and you uncharacteristically smirk, as if you exist here exclusively to remind me that this is the only plane you walk on now. Too often have I have awakened and found myself laughing darkly, marveling at the irony of wishing you away whilst yearning for your return. From now on I imagine that I will avoid sleep if possible.

[profoundyetinarguablyuseles-blog]

Cosmic.

“These consequences” she says, And I ignore them because for once, Just once in this inexplicable life, We are all okay at once, And the constant threat always apparent is not too devastatingly near. “These consequences” says my instincts, And I have been trying too hard to ignore the possibility. Such consequences are unthinkable, And if it came to that I claim that I would deal with it then, But I doubt I could do so with much grace. “These consequences” says you, But this time because it is you that mentions it I instantaneously fill myself up with rage, A single harsh inhale and I am shoving you against the wall as if I expect that to prevent you from speaking another word. It does not, so I shove you further until I can close the door in your face and sink down to the floor, I cannot bear to hear you speak of after effects or ramifications right now. “These consequences” says you once more, testing me, As if you intend to prepare me for the worst. I know for certain that I will never be prepared, But what I tell you is entirely dissimilar. “There are not going to be any consequences”. “These consequences” says I, As I sink to my knees by your side, The light gone from your eyes in a flash, Left behind by emptiness that seems to speak. It says “goodbye”, but I am not ready for that just yet. These consequences, I watch them unfurl much like wings might, And I hate myself for even making the connection. I despise that every instinct told me so, And I despise that I refused to listen, as if to delusionally protect myself. These consequences, and I am not sure what to do with myself in consequence’s wake. I press my fingers to your skin, And for a fleeting moment of pure denial I pretend to possess a healing touch. I pull my hand away when you remain still, my eyes and thoughts full of terrifying regret. You deserve to be saved.

[profoundyetinarguablyuseles-blog]

Losing Sleep and Trivial Things.

“Well I’ve been losing a lot of sleep lately,” I remarked indifferently after you had asked if I was well.

“Have you? Due to what?”

“I’m not really sure, but… I take back what I said actually,” I asserted, nearly lost in my own internal storm of thought.

“What, that you have been losing sleep?” You inquired, clearly confused.

“Yeah, I take that back.”

“So as I understand it, you have been sleeping fine, or at least normally?”

“Oh, no way. I have barely been sleeping. Honestly, going to bed has been torturous just in anticipation of the sleepless night ahead. I always feel drained, and I really wish I could just fall into a death-like sleep for at least a week to compensate for how exhausted my mind and body feel,” I provided in a tired, yet wholly earnest tone. My answer gained countless perplexed looks as I assume you were grasping for your next statement.

“I’m not entirely sure I understand. How do you justify redacting your statement about losing sleep if it is a fair assessment of the situation?”

“I guess I decided that the way I phrased my answer wasn’t effective enough. You see, if there’s anything I have learned over the past almost 3 years now, it’s that you simply cannot lose something you never truly had.” You still appeared to be unable to understand the relation, and confirmed my suspicions by beginning a new question.

“And that applies to sleep because-”

“I have never had any given night’s 8 hours of sleep before the night occurred. With sleep, it’s something you have only after you wake up. So if I sleep 3 hours, I then have 3 hours of sleep, and haven’t lost anything by not sleeping longer. I believe that the only logically-supported option with sleep is to gain it. You cannot lose something you do not have in the first place. I should have said ‘I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep’. That would have made much better sense,” I tried to explain, finding the thoughts in my head on the matter harder to linguistically transcribe than I had imagined. I really was exhausted.

“Do you not feel that you’re looking too far into it?” You asked, attempting a kind and gentle tone so as not to seem excessively imposing or belittling.

“I probably am, but it doesn’t hurt anyone for me to think too much really, so I’m not overly concerned. It makes sense to me,” I maintained contemplatively, suddenly realizing as I spoke the words how my beliefs and choices of phrasing shouldn’t affect anyone but me. You seemed to understand this too.

“Then so be it. If it makes sense to you, fine. Think as much as you want. Now, to address your sleeping issue…”