I’m glad you’re finally going back home to Oshawa. Reading Week returned me back to the stifling loneliness of the city where I couldn’t stop thinking about you - several familiar faces and I couldn’t stop thinking about you and Liz and how little and how much we went through together and alone.
How should I have responded when you’d told me that you had diagnosed yourself with borderline? “Let me wrap you up in fire and call it light therapy!” I invent myself saying that instead of the nothing that followed what you had actually said, which was, “I just feel alone and trapped in my own mind and like I belong in there more than she does.” Let me wrap you up in fire and call it light therapy!
I hope you understand all the things I wish I could have said properly instead of the struggling attempts I made at saying I love you, at seeming stable and coherent and OK.
We’re all trying to rehabilitate and sometimes the sun looks like it’s been broken apart. I lie awake at night dreaming of summer and how to make the sun bruise brighter, rehearse certain lines in my head over and over again so it’s still what comes out of my mouth when the rest of me is dumb with vodka, and so do you, so does everyone else. Things are always caught between swooping generalizations and specifics - infinitudes that make life impossible. Yesterday I felt like there was nothing left for me to go home to, and today I’m the opposite. There are always a few who I want to come back, and one person who I desperately need to come back (to me). Someone who will wrap me up in fire and call it light therapy.
It has been two days since I’ve had a drink and my sensibilities are already sunk somewhere deep along with my honesty. Binaries don’t exist. Something is just everything and nothing at once, and as long as we have everything and nothing, we all have something.
-
ressurection-test liked this
-
doukadoukadouka liked this
-
yrstruly liked this
-
savoir-adores posted this
