You’re probably not going to read this. I might not even send it.
It’s expiatory to lay down words on paper. A bit like an exorcism, you want to get it out of your body, something overwhelming, sucking out the oxygen in the room.
I’m scared. I feel like, for years I wasn’t able to feel anything before I met you. Then I din’t know what to do with all my feelings.
Now, somehow, as we separated, I felt numb again. Not able to feel anything with anyone. Yet, a leech without a shell, raw and ugly and thirsty for blood.
Detached like a puppet tugging at her strings.
I’m able to hold my head high and look like a functioning human being when someone else is around. I dug a huge pit of darkness all around me the last few weeks and avoiding anyone to come close.
When I’m on my own, it all burst through the seams likes blossoming of mushrooms, spores blooming through my body, starting at the diaphram, rippling through the skin, eyes operating their own nuclear fusion, overflowing of liquid and snort. I am a english jelly cooked up at 100C.
Electronic devices stop working when this happens.
I feel that I’m getting closer from an aneurysm everytime. A the same time, my dark creative energy to paint tortured souls has come back. I was almost missing it.
It comes regularly, the great bursting, once or twice a day as images uncalled and boxed away, make their way through my mind.
The buzzing feeling when we put our heads together, your hands around my body when you couldn’t get enough of me and I was trying to focus on making dinner.
The countless laughs,about anything so silly but we couldn’t stop laughing. The smell of the boat ramp and the trips and the dinghy by any weather, we didn’t care where we were living as long as we were together.
The feeling when we lay down in the cockpit, the sun bathing us, roasting us, together as if we were one piece of cake.
Or one complete fruit ready to mature.
The look in your eyes, at all times, under sail, in the dinghy, ashore, tired, upset, in the morning and while speaking to your mum.
The smell of your skin and how I couldn’t keep you out of my hair. My hair everywhere. The pulling on my legs in the morning and the tens of games we invented that were only proper to us.
Mister mittles, the finger man, the silly scenarios with played with anything that was lying around. The ukes jams.. The jam.
I remember the dark moments, the ones I was scared to express and the ongoing frustration at you seeming to go deaf. My constant worry around your back and your migraines but I was always so happy anytime I was following you anywhere.
Feet in the mud squishy between the toes and sometimes up to your ankles, spiky unidentified things scratching your soles. I was convinced that as long I was stepping in your foot steps nothing could ever happen to us.
Things don’t behave the way the are supposed to be when we are together.
Do you think you will ever go back to our cave? The constant clear blue sky following Inara sailing.
All these days of clear skies and things going to the perfection.What happened? where are you gone? Why have we been taken apart? What is the meaning of this. It’s wrong. It feels wrong. It does wrong and I am wondering if you feel these burst of emotions at the same times.
I mean, I just exploded in tears in the plane, hysterical, because a young woman my age, looking alike was holding her 18 months baby girl against her chest.
Our future has been robbed, sacrificed on the autel of both our egos.
I feel betrayed. By myself, mainly, who persuaded herself so much that it was forever, that we were special, that we are bonded. So much that there is no turning back.
I physically ache everyday and I wake up with the most horrible sense of loss. It’s worse than if you were dead; I know now I’m dead to you.
The fact that you feel you have recovered is suddenly a proof. It wasn’t real. I made it up. I am crazy.
The pit is engulfing me and my gargles of sanity add to the grotesque of the situation.
I hope I made you laugh, maybe you sneered, which is fine. Maybe you convinced yourself that my desperate attempt to lay my feelings upon you is a control technique.
If it’s the case, it’ll be a relief for me to know. Whether you weave yourself a shell of Stoicism and cynicism, maybe a bit of pity and have moved on. This isn’t something I will move on from, probably for a long time.
I’ll probably die before I recover.
My only excuse, the only way out is that, you are well and fully secured on your feelings towards me. That you have engraved them on a tombstone and left it somewhere in the shadows of your mind.
And no matter how excruciating it must be, this would set me at peace.