Recently, I haven’t been taking my medication as prescribed. This is for a multitude of reasons, primarily having a lot on my mind. For those who know me, what medications I’m on, and what that medication effects about me, it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’ve written two blog posts in a month.
All of my life, ever since I got past “I think therefor I am” I have had an inkling towards articulating things. It is almost an obsession to the point where, often, things don’t feel real until they’ve been articulated. These articulations can range from simply analysing them in my mind; plotting the flow of events, stimuli and reactions, to writing them down – sometimes just for me, sometimes for you.
I don’t feel like my experience of the world is anything particularly special. I haven’t ever thought that my own life was harder than anyone else’s, or that the problems I face are unique. I think that’s why I like writing them down, articulating them to prove to myself that they’re real, and valid, and normal.
But I feel like the ability to truly experience something is hampered by this compulsion. I begin to consider the avenues down which I will travel in the quest to articulate an experience before it’s ended. I separate myself from things around me like I need to pause for a moment to understand them. Well, that is to say, I feel obligated to. I do not need to do this, but I still do.
If the world is a collection of rolling hills and mountains, then I am the cartographer drawing contours on a map.
But I fucking hate mountaineering.
Enjoy the view.
I have always found a tasteful irony in invoking clichés to dismiss others. Even this, in itself is a cliché. But the reasons they can exist is because our experience of the world is far from unique. We see the world in a way as detailed and complex as everyone else, but it’s the same details and the same complexities. When two people read a book, they’re given the same plot points, the same characters and the same settings. Their perception of those things, the way they experience them, could differ so drastically that their description of some fine detail would be alien to you. But were they to explain the whole story to you, you’d know instantly what book they were describing.
It’s impossible to live outside of clichés. We all love and taste and smell the same. We all see and hear the same. We seek so avidly things that we haven’t yet experienced, and often avoid those that are cliché simply because they’re cliché.
But love, by most, cannot be avoided. It is, perhaps, the best explored cliché, in both media and culture. Love is what unites all of us, be it loving a person or a thing.
Love is complicated and multifactorial, and is, perhaps, one of the most obvious collections of clichés.
I wish I had better news for you, but I need to talk to you about one of its most popular.
Constantly we’re reminded that we’ll get over someone, or that there are plenty more fish in the sea. Constantly we’re bombarded with songs about feelings that are simple and basic and… cliché.
But to get over someone is to deny them. To change the past and remove associations and twisted, broken perceptions of a person and a relationship. But no one forgets anything. To get over someone, is, well has to be, has to be to allow yourself to acknowledge that you’ll feel all those stupid clichés all over again. To allow yourself to feel them with someone else, not only allow yourself, but want to feel them again. It’s hard and it’s painful and it’s never ever quite over.
At least not until it is.
Young, single and ready to fucking die.
I have discovered with time that I am capable of not longing for you. I have deliberated on our flaws and imperfections to a point where I can intellectually separate myself from you.
To say one desires love is an abstraction, an intellectualisation of a want. Love cannot be abstracted, nor intellectualised, and to separate its idea from events is impossible.
You planted seeds in my lungs. Even though the flowers that grew were beautiful, I can’t stop coughing up blood.
I once wrote a post on new years eve. Truth be told, I have been trying to write a follow up post since the 31st. Because a whole year has passed since then.
I followed all of my pre-blogpost writing traditions. I stayed up really late. I listened to sad music. I watched romantic drama, although not too romantic. But these short days do not lend them-selves to feeling. They do not lend themselves to writing. They seem only to lead to nothingness.
I remember, a year ago, feeling optimistic about the future. Back when this page was a horrible shade of green and my life was a lovely shade of pink. Well both of those things have changed, perhaps equally as much. I long for the way I felt before. I long for truths and lies and hopes and fears and wants and desires. To feel I have a place again. I long to be able to write in more than cliches. But I am greeted with nothing but cold, short, dark days and long, lonely nights.
When people talk about love, they talk about it in a mystical, whimsical way. Like it is some kind of magical, inexplainable force that can’t be explained. We are taught that Love is something that cannot be explained, only experienced.
But as I wander slowly from a time I last loved, I play with it as a concept.
I will not claim to understand it, or be able to explain to you, but it can be broken down further than it usually is. Only certain parts of love are inexplicable.
Love, as experienced by me, can be broken down as follows.
Perhaps the most obvious part of love, experienced first and perhaps most vividly is that of a desire for affection. All of those which I’m hoping to articulate are innate to the human condition, but it’s this, a desire for affection, that is most prevalent.
Humans, most at least, want to be touched. They want to be held and stroked and told that they mean something. This is something that, again, most cannot live without. Naturally, this affection does not have to be from someone as close as a lover. A parent, a friend, etc, can all make you feel positively about yourself.
The presence of a lover, however is validating in a very different way. In most cases, simply the presence, or knowledge of their existence is enough. To have someone to yourself in a way that no one else does is validating simply as a concept. To have someone be yours.. More specifically, to have someone -want- to be yours, is perhaps one of the most validating things a person can experience.
Another way someone can show affection is trust. Trust is perhaps one of the most underrated ways in which someone can show affection, even more so trust for the sake of trust. The way that we let someone touch us, or see us, or simply view us is to trust them. To allow ourselves to be weak in front of another person is to trust them. To allow ourselves to be touched and caressed and watched and listened to and felt and experienced is to trust someone. Trust is to Love as air is to wind. Love is an articulation of trust. Trust that was never asked for, never needed, only wanted.
To love is to be weak. To Love is to rely on something that, perhaps, cannot be replaced if it is taken away. If most people were to list all the things that they rely heavily on, none would be irreplaceable.. except for those that they Love. To Love is to be inescapably wrong about something, and to not care. To love is to weigh up an even number of pros and cons and finally still leap into the unknown.
If we assume that every person is damaged and flawed and broken and wretched, then we assume that they have an equal amount of perfections and desirable qualities. When they do not, we are not attracted to them. But to Love is to be shit at maths. To love is to let go of analyses and sculpt your ways and views and behaviours to fit the imperfections of another person. To find someone whos imperfections fit yours. Like a jigsaw falling into place.
To love is simply to see something as greater than the sum of it’s parts.
And now, we return to me.
To loose someone is to be stripped of them. To loose someone is to have something you rely on taken from you. Something that you’ve deemed irreplaceable.
But slowly, surely, after weeks of searching and searching for that missing piece, you begin to do the maths in your head.
To stop loving is to see something, simply, as the sum of it’s parts.
I feel.. I feel like I usually do when I write a blog post. But as I sit here and try to think of what I might write about, no words come to me. I feel like all of my problems are so normal. So cliché. So.. correct. Yet they still hurt like fuck.
I spend my time wondering if they’ll all go away. If it’ll all make sense in a week or a month or a year. I spend my time when I can next escape it all for 5 minutes or an hour or a day.
My life seems to be divided into moments. Moments with almost nothing of note in between. They’re just that, though, moments. If moments are all I’m working for, then why am I working at all.
Perhaps the most prominent emotion has been fear. I feel like this is true of most human situations, so why should this be any different. I’ve worried that some “lasts” are passing me by. Lasts that I fear if I miss, they will not be properly appreciated. Lasts I worry are essential to observe. The upsetting part of this is that some lasts cannot be observed. I cannot know that I’ve spoken to you for the last time, and I cannot know that I’ve thought or cried for you for the last time. Therefor, I find myself occupied with firsts.
I remember the first time, since we met, that I went twenty four hours without speaking to you. I remember just weeping at the idea of this. I remember the first time I flirted with someone else, then felt a heavy sence of guilt for days. Adding to that, I remember the first time I flirted with someone and *didn’t* feel that sense of guilt, which felt strange enough on it’s own.
I notice you in the tiniest of details, from things you’d have liked, to things you wouldn’t have. From things you introduced me to, to things you gave me that I can’t seem to hide from myself. A necklace, a cable, some stickers. Months later, I’m still surrounded by you.
Constantly I find little parts of you in the way I act and think and feel. Mannerisms I inherited or phrases I appropriated. I try to do things you’d approve of, then realised I don’t have to anymore.. Then realise there was probably a reason you’d have approved of them, so I do them anyway. You changed me for the better, as much as remembering that stings.
But I find my thoughts of you fleeting. They come, they sit like a dull ache for a few moments until I’m distracted by some other emotion or thought or idea or feeling. Then they’re gone.
Do I push those memories away, or do I keep them close? Do I wonder how you’re doing, or do I try to forget? I’m afraid the first time I have an answer is still to come.
Keep running. I wish I could tell you I knew what was round the corner, but at least it’s bound to be better than what you’re running from.
I think that the root of the separation anxiety is the realisation of lasts. While, the future will be affected by her absence, it will be pale in comparison to her affect on my past. You start of realising obvious things, perhaps so obvious you don’t feel like you realised them at all. I kissed her for the last time. I hugged her for the last time. I told her I loved her for the last time. While these feel like significant losses, they affect the present the least. The present is tarnished by the trickled of little realisations that follow. Things you know are meaningless alone. I got ice cream with her for the last time. I sat on her bed for the last time. I stroked her cat for the last time.
You picture all the things you’ll miss, and then the things you won’t miss. Things that were nothing alone, but were everything with her. Things you know will never be repeated with anyone else. We argued about who’d speak to a cassier for the last time. I tried to convince her to let me carry her empty coke bottle for the last time.
Loss came slowly. It crept up on me. For weeks I knew I’d lost something greater than the sum of it’s parts, but I’m only now accounting for each of those parts.
Even then, you still have the lasts that are still to come. I’ll speak to her for the last time. I’ll cry about her for the last time. I’ll think about her for the last time. And right here, right now, those are the scariests lasts of all.
I’m not sleeping right now, even though I should be. My mind is too full. I do not mind this, however, because my mind is full of you.
I think back to memories of such significance and importance, so full to the brim with colour and emotion and intensity. Feelings I can’t imagine anyone else making me feel. Feelings I can’t imagine ever wanting someone else to make me feel.
I toss and turn under my sheets with the memory of how much sounder I sleep next to you; of reaching across and touching you ever so softly, not wanting to wake you. I’d want to remind myself you were there. I’d want to remind myself that you were mine, and that you trusted me enough to lay naked next to me. Me and no one else.
Everyday I fall deeper into my memories of you. Fall deeper into my desire to make new memories as rich and deep as the ones we’ve made before.
Everyday I love you.
Everyday I slip deeper into you, forgetting the world and the people around me, wanting to give myself to only you.
You planted seeds in my lungs.
Even though the flowers that grew are beautiful, I need your help to breath.
But that’s okay.
I’m sat here in my pants on a Thursday afternoon. The window is open and I can hear the sounds of cars rushing past outside. A strange feeling comes over me, one that I haven’t felt for almost a year now. A strange twinge of nostalgia, but also hope and familiarity, like seeing the face of someone you love after a long time away from them; a feeling I know well. It’s a feeling of happiness, a memory of better times hinting at the possibility of an improvement. It feels like I haven’t got long to wait.. wait for what I don’t know, but I know it’s soon. It reminds me of things I love, and things I used to hate. It’s simultaneously like being with someone you love, and like wishing you had that person close to share it with. It’s a crazy mix of colours. I like it.
Keep doing whatever you’re doing.