Leaking

It was one of those moments where I could have reached out and touched my pain. Held hands with it. Cradled it. Tucked it in like a child. That’s how tangible it was.

I took it and held it away from me, thinking it would be easier if I could separate my pain from my self. Analyze it scientifically. Treat it like an experiment. It is not your own; it cannot hurt you. This is a lie. Pain is pain is pain is pain. It never leaves.

It stared back at me, reaching for me, the whites of its eyes shining in the darkness.

I’ve always lost in staring contests. I looked away. I took what was mine and stuffed it back into my heart, shoving it in the tiniest corners of me. Avoidance. Denial. Compartmentalization. My father says I’m a pro.

One day you won’t remember what their voices sound like. Right now, it’s breaking your heart. Consistent loss can kill a person. Slowly, over time, it takes your life blood and turns it sour. Poisons you.

I often wonder how many times a person can be hurt before they are completely numb. Some have a propensity for it. I oscillate between desiring oblivion and reveling in pain. There is something therapeutic about drowning yourself, a comfort in being surrounded by water. I’ve always been a wallower. Maybe it’s like being back in the womb. Save me, Mother. Forgive me, Father…

The human condition is inclined to suffering. This is why we consistently chase after love. It is linked to our desire for meaning. If you are in pain that means you had something that mattered enough to hurt you. You mean enough to the world to have the capacity to be hurt. Your existence was not for naught. Is it all an illusion? We will never know. Die. Perhaps then you’ll find out.

It is the absence of the little things that will kill me. I am not sure if I will even realize I’m dying, but I will know that something is missing from my life; there are some emptinesses that cannot be filled.

The lines of faces etched into my memory forever. The specific smells that make you double-take in public places. The sounds of laughter. How do you reconcile yourself with this loss? How do you find people to fill those spaces? I understand now how this time is the best of my life. Never again will I ever feel this whole and broken at once. I am not sure I would ever want to. It is so spectacularly special it is shattering me. Shards on the ground. Pick them up. Bleed. I am not sure I want to put the pieces back together.

I am not sure I want to go back to places where they are not. I cannot imagine a world without some people, but then I know I have felt this way before, will feel this way again, and over time will not even realize they are gone. I hate that about life. That the things you care about most will turn into things that are just there or things that have just been. It obliterates me when I think about it.

Why can I not hold onto these moments forever? I hate the fleetingness of it all. I want to break things. I want to grab them and not let them go. God damn it. Someone give me something that matters and something that lasts.

I am constantly surprised at the capacity to love. Sometimes, I feel like I’m leaking. Like there’s so much love in me that it’s spilling out of my heart, to my chest, pumping through my arms, dripping out of my fingers. Radiating. Don’t you feel it? With every beat, you lose a little of yourself.

Having your heart in your throat is a real thing. I can feel mine rising up and trying to escape: in sobs, in screams, in words that choke me. Stay quiet.

I’m almost thankful for not knowing everyone as deeply as I wanted. I cannot imagine what it would have been like to love each and every person as much as I have loved those special few. I already feel as if parts of me have died in loving what I cannot keep. Where am I supposed to find my heart? It will be scattered, a piece of it with every person I have ever loved.

Why does the world do that? Gives you these pure people to love and be loved by for a short time, taking them when you are sure you love them. I am always so unsure. But there are certain people who make loving them easy. Golden hearts. Shining souls. I have been blessed. I do not know if I believe in Fate or God or some sort of accidental reality, but to whatever or whomever it was that gave me these people: I am grateful. My life is a million times better; I have learned a thousand small lessons from the love they have shown me. I do not know what I will do without them. They have been gifts I could have never imagined to ask for.

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