Disconnected

I cry at the memory of crying.

Is it real? Is it grief even if it is forgotten? Mimicking despair from the past to feel something. Carefully selecting music that gives you access to teary eyes.

You see, that part of me is dead. I mean, it must be, right? If I go to such lengths to reach the pain, how sore is it really? You don’t walk ten miles to get a plaster for your wounded foot. Trying so hard to bring out something that surely just isn’t there anymore. Constantly looking for meaning. Why did that happen? What did that change about me? How do we all just…continue?

As I am writing this, my big gulp of coffee was unfortunately perfectly timed with the stench of an old woman’s perfume infiltrating my mouth. It was offensive. What happens to old women? Why do you reach an age where you now like that smell?

Anyway, perhaps it is the whole “it is what you make of it” or whatever the fuck. I can give it meaning if I want to. Feels odd, though, it being a choice. Indeed, it cannot be an open enterprise. That is what is so beautiful about crying. You’re detained with emotion. A prisoner who is incapable of concerns of mundanity and modernity. You don’t comb your hair, check for sweat marks or react to snot leaking from your nose. You get to rinse your mind of vanity. We don’t choose that, though, because we would choose that every day.

So I put on the sad songs and have a drink. Maybe two or three whiskeys, and I’ll get to that place. But, it is becoming harder. It feels almost performative, and that is the scariest thing of all. Am I trying to be that character? The person with a history. An excuse to be morbid. I’ve always loved a fucking prequel. Is that it? I want to have a complicated answer?

I have been told there are many parts to people. I agree; as the parts of me I want grow in power, a few fragments fall out of the truck. The truck never stops. Motioning through new environments, collecting new pieces of luggage all whilst that empty space in the back procures dust. So now I mourn mourning. Where do we go from here?

Cheers