I'm done. I'm done running. And done wishing. I wish you well. I wish you'd had more faith. Or stupidity. Or courage. Or all three. I wish I'd had less. I wish I could take back everything. Or go back and hit the repeat button. But life doesn't come with a repeat button does it- a rewind button, that is? The only repeats it does seem to have are the infinitely foolish mistakes that we promise ourselves shall never be repeated again. What a fucking joke.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I'm done. I'm done with butterflies. Butterflies, that are so breathtakingly beautiful, intoxicating. Exciting. But they leave too much pollen dust behind. Sweet and bitter with an aftertaste that doesn't leave you. Stays behind for days, gets into your mouth, into the recesses of your mind, into the crevices of your neck and the smooth curves of your body. Very inconvenient. So now I'm trying to brush it off, dust off my shoulder and breathe in, ignoring the sweet remains that linger on my breath.
I wish, I wish that I had more time, I wish you could be mine, I wish there were lyrics that didn't sound sappy, I wish I could be happy. I wish Cobain was alive, and that I had more drive. Ah, well.
This isn't really a note to you of course; it isn't even one to myself. I'm not really sure why I'm writing it, except that I guess I need to get it out. Purge, purify. And then forget, or dullen. I know that given time it will happen. I know that at some point, maybe even very soon, I will genuinely be happy again and move ahead. And for some reason the thought makes me even sadder. Melancholic , if you will. I feel then, like nothing matters. And things move on anyway. All the things that we hold important, or the stupid mundane little trials of our life that seem to consume us, are after all, then just bits of stuff and fluff. And fluff never had any importance. The very thought that I shall move on, makes me lose faith in the magic, the sanctity of things. I feel like whatever happens, everyone winds up fine anyway- jigsaw pieces, that somehow fit. This will not make sense to most people, most normal people who don't over analyse and scrutinize and melodramatise. But if life really does move on, despite everything and everyone, where's the magic? Where's the unique pattern? Where's the "how it's supposed to be, meant to be", where's the fucking Beauty?
I suppose this is stupid. I've fallen into the rut of those typical novel heroines who sit and moan and write letters to their long lost lovers that they never send. Phssht. I console myself with the thought that this isn't one of those letters and that it isn't to a long lost lover. Sadly, never-found seems to be nearer the mark. Either way, point is, I've definitely done stupider things.
Point is, there is no point. X, *sigh* there's so much we aren't allowed to say. It's kind of tiring trying to keep up facades of normalcy- even facades which probably aren't facades. It's harder 'cuz there really isn't anyone to blame. It's hard to know what I'm missing out on, 'cuz it never happened. All that I've got to hold on to is a feeling of wistfulness and an unfair longing for something that isn't real. I think indifference scares me more than anything else. Indifference and normalcy.
It's kind of funny X, but you make even Enrique bearable. I'm done, X. And I really would be,
But do you have to let it linger?