goldenmel

Mexico

i was surrounded by daisies and dandelions.

Message from Writer

yep. i wrote that.

little angel, do not fail me.

December 1, 2019

FREE WRITING

4
I feel like a drunkie descending snail stairs. If I were sober, I'd be afraid to lose my footing, but that sense of self-preservation has long since abandoned me. If I cared a little bit more about myself, I'd cling to the banister, hold on for dear life, but I think there's no longer a point to it. Everything around me is shadowed, a multitude of blazing colors blurring and intertwining with one another. I've never been drunk, but I am sure this is what being drunk feels like - losing control of yourself, the situation dropping off your hands with the same echo-y sound glass makes as it hits the floor.

Yes, I finally understand the paranoia. I am holding onto strings so tight my hands start to bleed. I refuse to grab a pair of scissors and sever our friendship. It'd be so easy. It'd be a sacrifice I'd make to remain sane. But what's sanity anyway? Sanity's overrated. And I know, once I lose you, I'll no longer be sane. Because that's the thing. I have never been a hundred percent sane. I am the kind of soul who years for commitment but runs away from it, ignites a fire and then refuses to put it out. I've burned forests because I couldn't control my mouth. You can ask the list of long-lost friends I keep in a journal hidden in my drawer, or you can simply call my mother and ask her how much I hurt because of stupid stuff. Right now, I am aware I'm tipping over a zip line with no harness. I will fall. In some ways, I cannot wait for gravity to pull me, to finally feel alive.

And my room feels like a time machine. I live in it, forever suspended in fragile moments, not knowing what might happen. I fear the future and I yearn for the past, but I am stuck in a present I cannot fully have. I should not complain. After all, I could go out whenever I want, hang out with friends to keep me distraught. But I don't want to. They don't know how I feel - I doubt they'd ever understand. Yes, that's cliche. But my emotions are raging with thoughts and feelings, and I can only hold fast onto the hope that has failed me many times before, hoping the winter comes to an end and you're still here as a witness to the tale.

Tell me, if I don't scream, does that grant me a ticket to hell? I could keep quiet and bow my head when it happens, pretend I didn't know. But I did. I held those secrets as cautiously as I held onto mother's hand when I was younger. That unrequited information is eating me alive, pillaging my organs, carving my bones. It is weary, it is painful. It is everything I am here for and it suddenly gifts me a purpose. I don't think I'll be successful.

So watch me become a trapezist, become enthralled with the dangers of life and its mitigating solitude. Once you leave I'll have to bury all my fears, swallow my pain, and keep preaching about a faith I no longer possess. I could accuse you of being selfish. I could say you're wrong for ending this journey this way, just turning off the car when your tank's full of fuel. But who am I to judge? How could I begin to understand? Your brain has always been complicated, always been more than I could guess. You're too smart for a world this mundane.

And listen, little angel, I do not know if you're in pain. I do not know if I'm rationalizing things to feel something. All I know is it will be a shame to watch you leave. I got used to you lurking in the shadows of my deepest sentiments, you serenading me out of tune with the inconsistent compass you call empathy. 

I could get used to this winter thundering inside me. It claims me as its own, begs me to freeze my heart so as not to feel cold. But I cannot. I am sorry. I keep the kindle alive by our fireplace, in case you decide to come home. And, little angel, if you don't, I'll keep the Christmas tree up as a souvenir you forgot to take with you. 

I could get used to next spring if you're here to see the flowers bloom with me. If you stay here and we make another impromptu road trip to who knows where just to get out of this city. I would celebrate your birthday and you'd celebrate mine. No gifts would be required, for your presence is all I could've ever asked for and much, much more.

I could get used to summer as we apply for college. Maybe I get to that low-ranking university I have my eyes on, and you fall on your face when you hear the news you were admitted to your dream college miles away. And then we have to say goodbye. If we make it until then, I promise I'll let go off your hand. I promise to let you leave. But it wouldn't mean I would forget about you. I am immune to amnesia now - you're something I recognize as much as I recognize breathing. 

And I could certainly get used to next fall, if you, for some reason, choose to stay here. I could drive forty-five minutes if it meant seeing you every weekend. I could cheer you up and be a witness to how strong you are, little angel.

But I cannot do those things if you fail me.

So please, please do not fail me.  
 

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