or, We Don’t Need your Kind

With a passion they never felt at all, I know I am now loved the way they never could have. Though they were never truly open to me they were always conveniently available and I didn’t have anything else to do either except enjoy myself. So I stuck around, enjoying their company, growing closer, waiting for him. Waiting. Like Daisy in The Great Gatsby, I would always wait for the longest day in the year and when it finally came I would perpetually miss it. Year after year, I was stupid.

I put so much weight on what never really mattered to begin with. It is so much easier to be hysterical when you are engulfed in the flames of the ruins. We made our decisions and I made my mistakes, and now, I am in something real, simply put. Sometimes I read books without realizing I finished them, and when I get home I am anxious to see what happens next, but there is nothing else.

And so, they bleed into my thoughts and evolve while I’m asleep. I dream in strange segments, about children or death or worship. I dreamt that Henry was alive, and in this dream he dies and everything after that is in vain. I remember thinking, in my dream, “It isn’t fair, you shouldn’t have to die twice.”

Days go by without my noticing they have come and gone. Now I live monthly, by what my body is telling me. The moon is fuller, heavier, brighter and with it comes shorter tempers, longer hours, and the realization that I am closer to another exquisite year alive. For that I am grateful.

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