vhee
There is a point in time where all that envelops you is the process behind the question. The solution is no longer important; the “why” of the situation washes over you in waves, bathing you with should be’s, would be’s, can and could be’s. I light a cigarette and take a heavy drag, relishing the searing smoke that rushes down my throat. The nicotine is intoxicating. The tar coats my lungs, and I wonder why it is that I never stare straight forward when thinking. I focus on a point not actually there, staring through the street lights and trees at an object that is purely a construct of my own reality as if creating an answer is enough. It never is. The body sits, but my mind soars into minute cavities, sifting through the dormant thoughts rotting away in alleys littered with discarded ideas, hoping to come across one that fits. “Rubbish,” I think. “It’s all trash.”
The setting sun is unavoidable. I finish my cigarette with the advent of darkening skies and conveniently nick myself on a broken thought. It’s name is Alexandra, and I smile, and bleed, and the blood is gushing as I cradle my hand with my lips and whisper her name into my fingers when the prayer goes unheeded. And the blood continues to flow thickly.
I gag on the taste, but it is bittersweet, and I do not want to forget. I cannot forget. It is a sticky sense of fear that oozes down my back and clamps into my gut, and the attempt to scrape it off, futile. So I sit and wait for it to pass, and it refuses. What better refuge for the demons of attachment than within the origins of them? I wish to eat myself, to swallow my being whole and disappear into myself, to erase myself from myself and become whole, or a hole. I cannot decide which would be preferable, and am too cowardly to act upon my desires. So I sit, and wait, and let the ache consume me until it is all that remains. I have found my solution.
Someone, please help me. I don't know if I can do this anymore. Not alone. I've lost my mind somewhere along the way on this long, dusty trail, and now that the destination looms ever closer, I've finally come to my sense and began looking in earnest for what I've misplaced.
I've earned this reprieve. It's been a long five months, and I deserve this moment of clarity.
I picked up smoking the other day. You never really think the act of slowly wanting to kill yourself might seem attractive, or something that you decide that you'll do, but fuck it. I'll give a whirl. We're all going the same way anyway, some of us faster than others. Maybe I've decided to start jogging.
"It's a fascinating effect. Laid out in front of me are seventy eight black squares, all of varying widths and sizes. Inside these squares are inscribed runes in white, all in different shapes. Pressing one of these squares elicits a response from the other end of this large affixed mirror, powered by lightning inside of this box." He pauses a moment to adjust his glasses. They are scratched, as if he doesn't take very good care of them. He's a quack, I decide. A loon. What kind of educated man fails to care for his glasses? Lightning in a box, indeed.
"So what exactly is the purpose of this box, Doctor?"
"I haven't the faintest clue!"
Madman.
"Isn't it exciting though? The implications are enormous!"
"Have you ever had a conversation with a statue?"
My ears perked up. Here it goes, baby. This is how it starts.
"A what?" Emile leaned in, eyes locking onto Andrew's. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him. Nervous.
Andrew rubs his knuckles. He glances at me before quickly taking a sip of his drink, and smiles tightly into his glass. "A statue. Have you ever had a conversation with a statue? They sit there, all high and mighty, unmoving. They think themselves great works of art." He drains the rest of his drink before slamming his glass on the counter. "Little do they know that we can smash them as if they're bugs. An insignificant fly."
You come home one day and your family is no longer your family. I don't remember exactly when it happened. They laugh the same, talk the same. They look the same. Something intangible to the naked eye has shifted. It's not that you don't make the effort to try to keep things the way they were, but you might as well be smashing a star shaped block against a square shaped hole. Something no longer fits in the picture, and slowly you realize it's you.
You begin to wander, drifting around in a creaking old jalopy as it sputters it's protests at you. The parts don't fit exactly right. It needs a new paint job. It leaks oil from time to time. Sometimes it refuses to start all together.
"I'm tired!" it moans. "Why-hy-hy-hy are you be-hee-heeing so difficult?"
You jam your key in further and slam your fist against the wheel, as if that'll get it going.
"I don't know what else to be."
It roars into action as if acknowledging it's been beaten, screeching into the night.
You continue to drift, searching for other lost souls. You peer into their eyes, searching for that spark of something. The spark of sameness. The spark of sadness, of solidarity, of solitary. The spark the spark the spark. Always searching for something. Never satisfied with what you find - if you find it at all; always looking for the next answer.
Story of my life.
Sometimes you find them. The bond occurs almost naturally, as if you've known each other for aeons. You can almost hear the clicking as the pieces of your conversation fit together. You complete parts of each other. Both basking in the other's weirdness, you drink it in with desperation. You feed off each other, reveling in child-like wonder at the possibilities the other possesses. It's never enough, but it's enough for now.
Most of the time the eyes are dead. The spark has gone out, or was never there to begin with. With soft words you lay them to rest, and slowly detach yourself from them as gently as you can. They don't understand why.
"What did I do?" they ask.
"Nothing," I reply.
Lost child, seeking another. Inquire within.
"It literally chapped him in hayaff!"
"What? It what?"
"Chapped him! Right in hayaff!"
I let this swirl in my head for a moment, drifting around until it finally connected.
"Oh, it chopped him."
"S'what I said, innit? Chapped him!"
I never could get hang of that heavy southern twang.
Her eyes drop. She has said the wrong thing again; she can see it in his hands as they make their sharp, harsh motions. He doesn't say anything to her, but that's almost worse than if he'd been shouting. At least then she'd have his voice, his anger to clasp in her hands and squeeze the venom out of his words - at least then she'd have something to work with. But the silence! So she breaks it, quivering and low, anticipating the backlash that is sure to come.
"Do you need any help with that?"
She trails off as his eyes flick to hers, penetrating them with his hatred. Her eyes drop. He hates the sound of desperation in her voice, and she does too.
It has been several days since I last saw you, and my hunger is spiraling out of control. My obsession is quickly becoming insatiable. I am haunted by images of great flashing jaws digging into the vulnerable flesh of my exposed underbelly while you, being the very definition of innocence and purity, cannot understand the tenderness that is merely the appetizer in this dinner for two.
You are hungry too. I can see it in your eyes when you lick your lips and blush, your ears gently blooming crimson in air thick with vulnerability. It is not for me that you present this bouquet, and that makes the wine all the more bittersweet. I am not the entrée you ordered - yet you slice a sliver from my heart, just the same.
"How does it taste?" I ask.
You are silent; the answer is deafening. I am not what you wanted, and it hurts.
Why do you censor everything I write, trite website?
load more entries
writing since 2012 · 23 entries · 20 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means vhee showed up.
3longest streak
20days written
0.7entries / week
the words vhee reaches for
eyesmomentslowlyfacesparknowhandstruthconversationagainsteyeheartearsworklostcannot