Broken

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There is nothing dispassionate anymore, you see. There is nothing that is so overwhelming to absorb than the fact that I might just be a mediocre person with a mediocre story, but I am here now and I am cleaning up after myself in the alley of forgotten hate. There was a point where the emptiness in my soul was filled with screams of my inner child. Terrified of being alone, terrified of being abandoned, terrified of being rejected, she would weep hopelessly, and I would watch myself shatter into a million new pieces every time. The convulsive sobbing, the pain, the awful crushing realization that yes, I am literally a waste of human skin and fiber. My dispassionate self scorns my wounded soul, roughly bandaging it up with the ideas of rationality and time and other more logical things which need not be so wild and predictable, and which need not necessarily hurt so much. Create some distance, you know. You’re meant to love yourself first before asking for someone else’s. 

 
Lies. Every single one of them. Stop surrounding me with awful ideas of what this concept of emotional relationships are supposed to be like, because I am tired of them. It’s not the tired that makes me annoyed or fatigued, it’s the sort of tired that pulls my bones down and my emotions into a confused spiral of frustration, pessimism and hate. Please stop telling me it’s normal, or what I feel is okay, or that a rejection is common and it happens to everyone. How dare you generalize the beauty and complexity of such an intricate and intimate experience?

 
He doesn’t know what I feel. He watches from a distance, glad to have been away from the powerful volatility of my emotional magnitude, letting me deal with my problems myself. To him, I am not a recipient of his love. He cannot explain why, as I suppose I cannot explain why I am attracted to a shallow, unfeeling creature like him anyway. In the end it will all boil down to superficiality. There will still be pieces large enough from the debris. I will nurse the rest of the pieces in the quiet sentimentality that accompanies cold, wet nights and drenched pillows. Some part will tell me it is better to let the filth go away, another wants me to keep it as a reminder of what had happened and what should not happen again. He is simply glad that I appear to have forgotten everything, as if it was so easy as waking up from a bad dream and washing my face off the remains of the night. The water flowing down the sink will hide everything and the mirror will reflect a clean mask. He is in his own limited world, where he shies away from feelings and emotions and does not bother to scratch beyond the surface. He take advantage of what he sees fit, as it flows by on the surface of the stream of my thoughts, but not once does it compel his humanity to reach into himself and ask the real hard question. Why did I expose myself to him?
 
It doesn’t surprise me at all, in some way, because he never was the kind to delve deep. In some delirium of love, I had imagined that I could coax his soul open and gently caress and love the spirit within, but then those were when I was deluded enough to think that the presence of another soul could help fill up the terror of being alone. What he needed me for, he came to ask and I over-dispensed. I was unable to hold back that little fragment of me which should have been more careful and more guarded, but no, the feeling of caring for another was so exhilarating that I ran around in its abundance, arms open wide, ready to accept life on it’s own terms. Except life did not want things to work the same way I did, and it was hard for me to accept that. Again, I have fallen and I have only myself to blame and I do not know how to heal my wounds, so I weep into them and touch the scars tenderly in the silence and darkness of a solitary room, wondering if they are still there or have they gone away. 
 
If I ever told him the story, he would laugh it off. How stupid of me to invest so much of myself into him, he would say. Granted, he would even tacitly agree that he was not worth it. But my over-rationalizing has tried to make simple straight lines out of a complex web of curved spheres and thus every time I am either left with a new conclusion that cannot be followed up again or an incomplete world, because I still search for within the reasons why. Maybe I frightened him off, maybe I deserve him, maybe I shouldn’t have tried, maybe I should have waited and the endless list of maybes that I can create and re-create and re-invent, because I am now exiled in the alleys of the past, and the only thing that keeps me from going completely numb is the slow satisfaction that within these dark pools of hate, I can still find some shape of semblance to keep the fragile remnants of my heart intact. No, I have collected too much dirt on the rag, and so I wring it out. Once again I dip it into the bucket of residual hope and start scrubbing his face off my memory, nullifying the lasting power of his charm, staggering under the debilitating force of dejection, and pure lovelessness. 
 
The tears never really show on my face until something reminds me of the dirt that once was where the shiny clean surface is now. It is now a frightening shadow, of not just how scared I am of being alone, but also how deeply I can hurt myself in the desperate, pathetic quest to fill that void in my life. Every move I make, I thing I say or do is calculated several times over in my head because for some stupid reason I cannot stop respecting the opinions of people around me and neither am I objective enough to filter out which ones truly matter and which ones don’t. So, I scrub away even now, imbued with an obsessive compulsive disorder to make sure that never again will those scars be allowed to appear. 
 
Despite my best efforts the scars do appear. In all sorts of odd forms and styles. The movie with the happy ending. The hypocrisy with the free-falling lies that settle like giant raindrops and stain the fabric that they land upon. Yes, these are those lies that drench the bones and make you shiver and you’re lost wondering if the spirit behind that smile, and the spirit behind his kindness was really just a forgotten metaphor for a transaction. The indifference is hard to penetrate. I wonder if that is the only core of his soul or is my delusion in believing him to be a better person than that. 
 
It’s getting my teeth on edge that there are still these mundane ordinary things that force me to look back on what I’ve lost, on the naivete and affection and obsession of one human being who did not respect neither know what it means to be immensely loving and forgiving. I cannot tell you how much I hate myself for knowing that even now, when the troops have retreated and the skies are clear and the scars are so well-hidden that even I have forgotten where they lie, I know that I have left a small part of me with him, and I try to comfort myself by knowing that I am large enough to function without that whole. I am broken and shattered and perhaps too mediocre to even have the feelings that I’ve expressed here, after all there are so many other things that are going right with my life, but please, I beseech you, respect my pain. Because it doesn’t matter which hurts more as long as it hurts. 
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