This is yesterday.
Not that I ever do. This is different though. I didn't expect this. You think that for so long you want something, only for it to turn out that you don't really. You don't want the wrong impression to come across. Your motives to be seen as malign when you don't have a proper clue about them yourself. It's not about you. Except it looks for all the world as though it is. You didn't do any of this to me. From the very beginning I've done all of it to myself. You do it to yourself, you do. Sucked you in because I can't just let go. All the time making this seem more dramatic than it really is, should be.
So often doing things on the spur of the moment, or after hours, days, of mulling it over, only to rush it still at the finish. Thinking that I have to make some sort of recompense, even if I so obviously can't, and so am reduced to making platitudinous gestures that nonetheless might make things slightly more tolerable, even if incredibly fleetingly. Or might in fact do nothing of the sort. I don't know. If I knew the point of anything, I no doubt wouldn't be writing this. Wouldn't have been writing this blog for years.
I just don't know. I don't know whether I want help, whether I can be helped, whether anyone can help. For years I had recurring dreams where whenever this person materialised, they would either run away, or stay mute however much I tried to get them to talk. You think you want to talk to someone so desperately, so want them to do something, and the next you know it wouldn't do anything. You know you couldn't do it anyway. The only thing I think I could do is fall at their feet. Beg for true forgiveness. Cry absolutely pathetically, beyond pitifully, offered a shoulder to do it on or not. Think that all you want is to feel their warmth, fall asleep next to them on a sofa. That sort of hilariously silly cliche, beyond trite sort of thing. As though it means anything. As though it would solve anything. As though it's anything you deserve. What would I give just for one of your smiles?
Every time thinking this time, this will be it. I'll do this, however many promises you've made previously and broken, and that you'll get anything other than the only response you possibly could get, that you deserve. It ought to reinforce how many times you've been down this road, only it doesn't. No means no. No response means no. How difficult is this to understand? Take the hint.
It doesn't seem as though I'm physically capable of coming to terms with myself, with anything, with everything. I don't know if it's because I secretly don't want to, if it's because I'm masochistic and enjoy punishing myself in this way. I still believe that if I could the cycle would only repeat anyway. In actuality, there have been times when I've really, honestly thought that it's receding. It's going, finally. Put it behind you. Laugh. Each time I've been wrong. Even as the years pass, as memory fades further, it's still here. Not a single atom in my body is the same as it was then, and still I remember. We don't know how it is memories are formed and stay with us, despite brain cells routinely dying and not being replaced. We are the only species that know some day we are going to die.
I called up Eugene. Told him I was drowning.
It's so fucking sad. How you've actually had to cope with a friend killing themselves, while this idiot sits here moping and begging and prodding. Who doesn't know how to fuck off. How you've done something, something wonderful, something beautiful to try to help others. How you helped yourself. While I bother and harass you over something beyond petty.
I'm sorry everything is falling apart.
Labels: personal shit