You share your bed with all the ghosts of dead relationships
It’s summer, and the forest is burning. It’s summer, and the coast is flooding.
——The recent widower moved everything out & put his house up for sale. But
——the Yorkies went up for sale first.
I never get to remember my dreams, except the bad ones. Maybe all I ever have
are the bad ones. The ones I recognize for what they are while I have them are
good for me but no one else in with me. Maybe they get back at me for it. Maybe
I deserve it.
——My grandmother appeared, face bloody, weak but walking. She lived on just
——in the worst sort of pain & suffering, anxiety & frailty. No warning, no
——message just wailing agony & confusion.
If there’s any hope for any of this, it’s that one day there’s rest, and we’re all
wiped away. But I fear sleep is a slice of death, and the mind gets an eternity
of dreaming first.
——V continues to wander thru, never happily, waking worse for the reminder
——a future self can never be trusted. No matter how much present love or
——happiness you share, all sweet joys putrefy, in the grave & all preceding,
——with romance more than friends, but with friends just the same.
So the new lovers & the new friends resemble past ones, but the pattern is played
out. Like a long drive to some scenic place, magical to start but with repetition
interminable. You can only experience it as its own experience once. After,
each trek includes the previous ones, a photoshop layer with the transparency
lower or higher depending on the mood. People should be their own journey,
but we’re all more like someone else than like no one else.
——After the first time, you never get to be alone with someone again. You share
——your bed with all the ghosts of dead relationships.
I feel more & more like my life’s passenger, witnessing & interpreting but choosing nothing, doing nothing. My limbs are not my own, my words are not my own, even emotions to the point of tears seem to happen to someone else as they happen, and my only job is to interpret it, put it into a narrative. There’s a Yeerk in my head that did all of this, but I got to see it all, and if I protested its choices, I did so too late or weakly. Really I just fell into everything I ever did, every relationship I ever had. That’s the secret to the alcoholism. I’d have never gotten laid at all if I hadn’t been piss drunk every time. If I ever sober up, I’ll be celibate for the rest of my life.
The question often comes to my thoughts, unprompted, ‘Who would miss you if you were gone?’ Really, like a year from now or five. In one hundred, there will be no one left alive who knows my name; in ten, I might be a supporting character in some anecdotes, an antagonist in more than a few but hopefully nameless then.
A much better question is, ‘Who would be happy if you hung around?’ And the trouble is, I don’t have good reason to think anyone who feels that way would continue to like a year from now or five.