I'm not used to doing this kind of thing.
Writing plainly and without set purpose or edition seems both dull and fruitless.
But somehow, inside me, a metastatic urge to write has emerged. And grown.
And filtered my existence with words and dots and question marks and a bunch of orthographic an syllabic mumbo-jumbo altogether far too complicated and long to describe...
I miss you. I love you. But I will let go.
(and somehow, from the start of this all I knew it was the only way)
I was foolish...
When trying to conceal my sorrow with shallow interests and occupations, and numb my mind with restless sound and noise that only seemed to make me go
But now it's not like that anymore.
[hush, there enters another actor on the scene. And you stay back... and I'm sorry you'll disappear - I know that you will - but he doesn't even cast a shadow on your beautiful, epic pale figure, hovering magically by the side and gazing confidently to empower my anemic state of mind]
I was feeling so fine with my forced addiction
That I almost could linger on the feeling of never being able to find another you, in between rushes of drug through my veins...
I WAS SO HAPPY! I was so joyfully vain
I was so mercifully sin-free and light headed that it almost sickens me the disruption of my simple, insane and perfectly superficial nuissance d'être
(so, why did you have to come and wreck all of this with your systematic punctuation and wonderfully pitched voice and british humor and elegant walk, and moody days that evolve into beautiful, clear, cold, pristine confessional nights while smoking cigarettes and telling tales...).
I love our telekinetic introspections. I love the fact that I don't need to explain myself, but when I do you get everything so fully right I want to cry.
I love that you are my shadowy best friend.
I love that you are my lost brother
And my parallel
And my soul mate
And the only person in the World that can make me gasp with overflowing sensitivity, comprehension and concomitant immense knowledge.
But I hate your similarities with my vague, lost reflexion,
and I do hate your empathic psychoanalysis
and I hate your half-words (that I also love - the half that you keep to yourself)
AND I HATE NOT MAKING SENSE WHEN I THINK OF YOU!
I hate falling down and throwing the lunch tray down when I sense his breathing and that I only feel safe and reassured when you come and lend me a hand.
And I LOVE your mockery! And your enthusiasm, and your pain...
Does this mean I love you?
Not at all. It is too soon to say...
But I won't forget the other two others I left behind, one in a different life
The other perhaps across the ocean.
One is dead;
the other has never been so alive.
I am happy amidst my grazing and ever-appealing dark side...
And I do have love.
That's for sure!