when there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire

I will write.

I will write and write and write until there is nothing left

because

because I haven't had to fight this feeling in so, so long, and honestly,

I'm a little scared.

I tried.

Even though it never makes sense to talk about it with the persons remotely involved in the trigger of this sort of nonsense. It doesn't make sense because I used to do that, let people in. And honest to God, it doesn't get you anywhere.

So.

I attempted to put my words together and be honest.

And I want to be honest like that because talk is cheap, and people say things they don't mean all the time, mind-fucking you every chance they get.

So I did. And I thought I got it all out, and I thought it made sense. And I was almost okay.

Except, I don't think I got myself across quite right. And then I wanted to, I wanted to right what I was saying, and I tried, was trying, but my words kept catching,

kept tripping and I didn't know how. And no, I'm not frustrated at myself because of it, it's just the way it is. So I figured I'd drop it except, except I hate that a half idea's been left out in the open instead of all of it.

I think I'd rather have had you not understand me at all, or not heard from me, rather than get a vague picture.

Okay so. Secret's out then. I wanted to explain myself.

Except it was time to go.

When it happens like this, I never know quite what to feel.

And so I bite my lip really really hard, until it starts tasting different, and then I just hope that it'll kill the bubblings of nonsense that build in my chest.

Maybe it was a lot of sappy bullshit that I found myself tearing up over while trying to be logical. Maybe I was tired. Maybe despite being tired, I made myself verbalize what I felt except it didn't feel like I had all my words and so it was a shoddy attempt.

Maybe it's all of it.

And that's one too many reminders or thoughts or realizations of feelings.

Here's the thing too-

That now that the conversation is brought to an end, I won't want to bring it up to sort out properly. Except, I am very much for sorting through things so that you can put it away and label. And although I can sort it out with myself, and actually have, for the most part, and found myself like 75% less hung up about what I will henceforth refer to as Issue 01,

you, on the other hand, are left with a half idea that I've been rubbish enough to put across to you. Which doesn't give you insight or understanding or, well, anything. And that's not your fault, it's mine. Especially so because I decided to give up (and said so out loud).

Perhaps I will write it in a letter to add to the stacks of unsent, in a feeble attempt to make myself feel better.

Post 9:28pm and the wave of nonsense it brought triggered an insanely intense string of questions that went off in my head. It's like tripping the burglar alarm in your own home, and you need to scramble, knocking into chairs and table corners, to get to the bloody device and key in codes before the police come round.

So Issue 01, oh it was barely the beginning.

In fact, Issue 01 isn't even an issue anymore;

I've dealt with how I felt, understood what stems it, acknowledged both the logical and illogical thought progressions and come to the conclusion that it was very much less to do with the person in question as it was how the scene played itself out. Especially in my head.

But this in turn sparked off furious questions fired off at me from four walls of mirrors.

And they've got a point.

They always do.

That hurting distance is really, no distance at all.

That sometimes we believe things we want to believe.

That talk is cheap.

That people can say the most beautiful things when they're in bed with you.

That we lie to ourselves best.

That it only hurts like this, because one feels so much for that person.

That the only reason anything hurts or is painful or even just stings a bit, is because one allowed such feelings to be.

It's not that I feel this way about you or anyone in particular.

These are just one-liners from my multiple protagonists.

And these, I will sort through on my own.

And I am tired, I am.

Of myself, of being tired of myself like this.

But I suppose the biggest reason I needed to write, needed so desperately and urgently to write,

was because I haven't reached (if only mentally) for something so immediate and sure in the longest time.

Haven't had to fight that crippling dependency that's made up most of who I am, but which I've never seemed to have minded, for the most part.

Haven't had to think through a teary mess like this. Haven't even been a teary mess in the longest while.

And maybe I decided against it for the wrong reasons, but at least it held me off long enough to open this page.

So.

Spent, I shall now take this mess to bed with me and curl up under the covers.

There's a whole lot more than this batshit to sort out before Thursday morning.