Smoking · with · Aqua-Net

It seems I've lost my voice again. Its the second time this year. I hate how ironic it seems. Me without a voice. How appropriate.

Lost power in the house twice this year also. Oh the beautiful irony. Like some trite highschool girl is scripting metaphor into my life.

A tenative peace decends upon the Fair house. He cares for me in illness, but never strength. Perhaps there is a change. Perhaps I'm a sucker. Time re-opens all wounds. The boundlessness of my hope in his presence is matched only by the doubt in his wake. I ought never have let myself get this involved in anyone.

The tenuous beginning of nothing on the weekends. Injury and indifference, the gap between what I appear to be and what I am difficult to traverse. I must admit its sexy that he sees through me. To be seen through and still desired is a much overlooked way to a girl's softer bits.

Even if the road to mine has always been a freeway.

How do I lie with a liar? She who fights with monsters must take care, lest she thereby a monster become... My desire for my lost love and my tenderness for the stranger conflict and threaten my integrity. If only I could demand that no demands be made on me until i can think clearly for a moment, but I think we all realize how unlikely that is.

I find myself asking which is more important- to be nurtured in weakness and illness, cared for then in the dark - or perhaps better to be nurtured and cared for at the height of vitality. It is harder to tend a thriving garden than to splint the wing of an injured bird. I find myself thinking that Rhys wanted a bird, and was willing to break the wing so that he could save me. I am a bit more jungle than bird, I require little in the way of tending. One small convenience is asked... and denied. One small girl returns to dilligence alone.

Perhaps I ought not wax philosophic on pseudophedrine and antibiotics. Duly noted however that he is much kinder to me when I am ill, or weeping than when I am hale and happy. Envy? or something worse?

A few weeks ago I was (over)analyzing my response to all this devastation and thinking, "my god, when did I become a Kantian again?" As though when I was tossed aside and alone I had stumbled back into my Catholic past and moral absolutes - with little in the way of absolution. I found myself talking about maxims (a sure sign I'm drunk, distraught or probably both). I became once again pre-occupied with responding in kind. "What sort of universe has he chosen to define for himself?" I would ask. Climbing the ivory pedastel in the back of the library in my mind. I wedged myself deeply into my intellectualism, my rage- a cloister enshrouded in archaic morality and antiestablishment dreams. "What is a relationship but a promise?" I ask...
Not much. Not much indeed.

I walked today, a few miles in sunshine and the berefit of tumbleweeds ghost-town streets of my home town. Somewhere on the cobbles my boots drummed up a memory, a phrase...
A liar is not believed, even when he tells the truth
... Now where is that from I wonder. Its too informal, too irreverent for Kant. I have known it too long for it to be Bertrand. It couldn't be any of my beloved humanistic psychologists. They are more forgiving than that. Now who... who indeed.
Oh. That's right. Fucking Neitzche. Frederick Wilhelm Nietzche. How I have loathed him. How I have loved him. How we have danced.

So I'm actually at a point where extreme hedonistic existential philosophy is where my thinking lives?
Yeah. I guess so. And I miss my Little Megan. She always made this sort of epoch easier to transcend.

And I have a better quotation from our syphillitic german crumudgeon that better outlines where I live now. Where I have to learn to live again. And for the rest of my life without my impossible dream.

"Not that you lied to me, but that I no longer believe you, has shaken me"
Beyond Good and Evil

Oh bother.

Everything in my life is tainted by it. My posessions. My home. My friendships. My clothing. My sheets. My everything is covered in the acrid ectoplasm of my utopian love fantasy. I see him. Of course I see him, he lives five feet across a hallway... but apart from that everywhere. The memory stalks me. It waits on corners we walked past holding hands. It sits on barstools next to me, reminding me what I was foolish enough to believe in. The other side of my coffee booth is empty, and yet full with the emptieness in me. A mocking blue eyed, fallen angel sneered memory of how little people value the truth. How little we matter to other people in the end. How often they would rather tell us lies than love us. How often they lie about their heart.

I wonder, often (and have often wondered) if I am wrong to value truth above all these other things.
I am sated. I am confident that, at least for my own life, my priority is correct.

Because my heart has always been at least a dichotomy. My mind has never been made up in all eventualities. My body has always been my mode of expression. Its by offering full disclosure that I can buffer people who want to pretend to love me for awhile...

Guess I don't blame all of them. I'm hard to love.

Some of them, however, I do blame.

Alas- Here I am again torn between a liar and my dreams.

Why did I trust him again the first time? Why spend years waiting for him to dissuade the vulgarity?
To respect me? To romance?

Not just talking about fucking like its his premier nocht. Not bringing up the exploits of the girl he so delights in letting talk dirty and disrespect me every time she has a beer too many.

Nevermind how many nights I tried, I wanted, I ended up masturbating and crying in the bathroom while he listened to the drunken giggle of the girl who must mean so fucking much to him he'd tell me a bold faced lie.
Years upon years. He always did seem to walk away.

Now that it seems there's not much for him to abandon me for he wants it all to be the way it was.
How do I lie with a liar? How do I let deception move in me? How can you open your thighs for a man who talks incessantly of the intimacies of another?

I may have had an adventurous life. No time to be ashamed of it now. And maybe I do talk about it. Maybe I seem to go on- its only that I so love my experiences with people. The strange and wonderful ways they carve out one line one pattern different from all others on their statue of self. A kuros so often we show others only when our pants are off.

And incase twenty year old me is reading this: Do not start having sex with people you love. It only complicates the issue.

I have now - grade A officially - had intercourse with one person I loved consumately, and love unconditionally. The tence discrepancy is significant- and once is enough. Love him I always will, its the consumate that seems to be past warranty and badly damaged.

So what do I do now? I don't want anyone else. I want who I've believed I was with for these years. Maybe I'm too in love with fiction- seems to be a recurring theme. I just can't let myself do this again. The doubt. The inevitable erosion of my self worth. The emptieness. Its past fear, and it isn't freedom. Its the void. I'd call it Limbo but apparently Pope Palpatine did away with some of my favorite things.

How is it that I didn't build any coping mechanisms that don't revolve around something carnal. I fuck. I drink. I carouse. I'm very viking about it all. Tonight we feast because our heart already died.

I want to fuck. Man do I want to fuck. Just senseless base destruction. I want someone to do to my body what he did to my soul. Turn it inside out, throw it away, penetrate it in the worst most degrading ways leaving me empty and bruised and begging and worthless.
But you throw away the little black book this long, and you can't ask your friends to give you that kind of catharsis.
at least i can't

I don't want to drink. I don't want any of the delightful ballistrades and barriers I've built around this to come crumbling in on me. I can't touch this. Its bad enough to feel it with my wits about me. Give me a beer and I can't bear to see sunlight but for the pain.

No appetites at all. No hunger. Nothing. Null.

I am an empty set.

So now read on. Into what? Into the rest of my life I guess.

I dont want anyone to touch me. It feels like a setup. I don't like people to care for me. It reminds me he doesn't (or didn't - i'm unclear on that issue). I don't want anyone to tell me I'm beautiful if he didn't mean it.

Not because he's the only man in the world.

Because he is the only one I ever truly wanted, and it wasn't reciprocal in the least.

Somewhat strange to listen to the intimating conversations of others in my living room. Life stories. The little interesting ways we hammer the haphazardness of humanness into narrative imparative, hoping for happy endings.

I broke a glass today. A wine glass I've often looked on with fondness. Its a silly glass, and just a thing. That's not the point, though. It was a glass given to me by a former roommate- because I had broken its mate in a dishwashing accident. I thought it was a nice gesture. I'm sure she thought it was a mean one. But I loved that glass- although I miss the set I gave her half of to replace what I had broken accidently years ago. Now I miss the friendship I had with that girl, when we were different girls, and the wine glass I always thought symbolized a lot of things about life. It leapt from the table today. As though something beyond control was smashing it. I'm still waiting for the floor to dry to sweep up the glass- although it would have felt very narratively appropriate for it to cut me when I picked it up. It didn't. Not much in fact happened. I'm forever dissappointed at what a dull story unfolds in the average life.