018. on endings
empires, relationships, "opportunities", lives.
It was the last straw for me. It’s really like that, the mass of it you know? Straw. A thousand lashes and you still don’t fucking care. You’re not sorry. You actually don’t give a fuck, and you’ve already moved on. It feels like I could apply this to every lost relationship, all that history with maybe one exception.
I just pay bills.
I just help you feel better.
I just pick up the phone when you call.
I just agreed to come over.
I was just a body.
Just an employee.
Just a ride.
Just an ear.
I was just there, willing.
And I loved. I would have given you everything if I was sure. If I felt more safe. And I did it—it being giving everything—terrified, anyway. (Now I know justifiably.)
I still want you to fucking care, it’s incredible. I wonder if I’m the incredible one. I must be. Crazy. Do I get on a plane in the morning? Is that impulsive, is it crazy, is it the very thing I need to do? If I can get to the water by evening, will I be okay?
I know I have a way of externalizing. I don’t easily take responsibility for things. It’s just, things don’t just happen. They happen for a reason. People make choices, yes. But there are reasons why. I think that context is important.
I had no idea what I was in for. If it was just up to me, it would have never happened. I could not have gotten here without you. Was it me? Is it me still?
We are living under fascism. The noose tightens when life could be perfect.
I don't want to participate. I'd rather read and write and do what I can where I am.
Am I safe here?
Am I safe anywhere?
What are the stories you are telling where you are?
To what end?
The world leans right.
A circle, its own weight falling on itself, flat.