when you're collarless and abandoned

am i the only person who hates it when all of your little lives don't mesh anymore? the frantic, frazzled scraping of recall, recoil, and redirect?

i have no words lately. which irks me because autumn has always been my writing season.

my true love, the love of my life, the exact mirrored opposite soulmate of mine married my psychotic ex-friend in august because he wanted a different kind of mystery. because he wanted someone crazy to dig and explore who wouldn't dig and explore him back. he wanted a girl who didn't know him. and i don't mean in that way. i mean, a girl who didn't know him for who he is. for what he could become. for where he's been. he knew that i saw him, and loved him for all of it. and in the end, it's because i loved him that he couldn't love me.

but then, he did love me. they all love you. it's why they leave. or so they say. it's true though. they find pieces of themself in you and they love you for it. they love being able to give over some part of who they are and to pick up a part of who you are on the way.

and in the end, we really are mostly the people we've given ourselves to at some point along the way.

i'm rambling. about love. all my friends hate it when i do that. because they think it's drama. and they hate The Drama. but it's not drama. it's just life. and how can you live, and breathe, and feel, and not have intense reactions to the massive and glorious amounts of shite that you wade through?

i don't know. it's just...you get to that place when the one person says no. and you can do nothing to change it, because you've made all the right choices, and when it came down to the pivotal moment, someone else made a choice that completely negated all you worked for. all you built and hoped and dreamed and lived.

so how do you go on living when everything behind you has been swept into a heaping pile of nothing; and your best friend who knew you inside out and vice versa, can no longer talk to you, or interact with you, or be with you in any semblance of pureness - or genuinity - because you both know that all their daily functions are some sort of farce: a lie, a thing that they get to play at because it looked fun and interesting and unknown?

(holy shit, that may be the longest sentence i've ever written.)

so i loathe him for turning me into the jilted bitchy ex-girlfriend. i was miss havisham for halloween this year. in my heart.

how do you work around the empty spaces, when they're so conveniently empty in all the places you need to be building on?

i can't write, because it's empty. i reach into this barrel of...whatever...inside of me, and there's nothing.

where the hell is the barrelmaker and who knows his number?!

Nothing important for me to say, today. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.


Sigh.

Weird vibes lately. Odd, discomfort...a sort of tense, coiled, unsprung torrent of confession? No, not confession. Admittance. Reluctant, but inevitable.

I can't find the words. And it's not me, or Scott. It's him.

He's been writing lately. Posts them where I can see them...and they burn in the scars of the little tear-lines. He always finds a way to discomfit me when I'm at a quiet, sincere, comfortable place.

I'm tired of his haunting, of the way he still sits behind corners and peeks at me, to remind me he's there, in the dark, in the wings.

I know he'll never be on the stage with me again, never again will we stand in the streetlight and look at the tree-branches. Confess dreams and meaning and co-write about the things that we saw together. The things we saw of togetherness in the times we were apart.

I keep thinking I'm fixed, that this jigsaw me is sorted out and showing a nice picture.

I keep forgetting that inherently, a jigsaw will always lie in pieces.

He writes about me in the places she can't see them. He leaves me in the background corners of his life now.

Things could have been so different.

I search, scour my collection of music. Scrambling almost frantically...but everything is quiet. So silent.

And I can't find the right song to sing.


October is almost over. I have a lot of writing to do.



To the morning,

Chels

I do what I can...I work with what I have. My doubt is my passion, and my passion is my task.

+50 points for whoever can tell me where that comes from.


The only coworker I really get along with is leaving me today. But I might be following her to her next job... customer service for eBay™. Heck, it's $15 an hour, full time with benefits, and it's right next to my dad's building, so I can hitch a ride to work with him in the mornings. An hour and a half in the car with dad every day might be a bit painful, but at this point, there's not a lot I wouldn't be willing to do for $15/hr AND the pleasure of being able to run screaming from this place.

I'm going to head outside, since it's her last day, and join her on her smoke break.

Later, kids.


Chels

p.s. It was Henry James.

Current Mood: Pre-sprung, edgy, tense. Antsy, perhaps. Somber, but brewing.
Current Song: Pissing by Low
(Lyrics: I can't see. Sing the darker of pissing on my toes. Knowing what I know I know. I'm waiting like a loyal whore. Under every stone
Lovers sleep alone. Alone. Alone. Lovers sleep alone. Alone. Alone.)
Current Game: KOTOR II
Current Book: Ariel - Sylvia Plath
Current Random Quirk: Sucking on my bottom lip.
Current Obsession: Scott

Today is hard. It's raining outside and it fits my mood, but I don't feel like I fit into my skin and my life right now. Andrea called me this morning to tell me that Su had a miscarriage, and that's why she wasn't at work half of last week. Last week was the first time I heard that Dan had quit all his jobs because going to school for 18 credits this semester at Su's urging is taking up all of his time. He and I haven't talked in a month. He doesn't need me anymore, and it's odd to feel that sort of letting go. It was just wierd, because last night I had my dream again... the one where I'm stuck taking care of their unwanted baby because I have nothing better to do with my life, and I'm the only person out of the awkward three of us who cares about it. It was different than usual, though. A lot darker, more tense and full of undercurrents in the flow of things. Winds of change are stirring mid-October. I love this time of year, because the world turns shadow and grey and you feel every breath and going outside makes your skin tingle. I get my best writing this time of year. I feel like writing something right now, but nothing good will come out. There's a poem stuck in me, and I'm too preoccupied to get it out right.

Last night I went for a walk with Scott, and we talked about stuff. About life. It was our first really serious talk, and it was interesting. He has a lot of the same feelings about things that I do. The same kind of questions, the same kind of reclining doubts. We went to his car when it started to rain, and talking led to other things. I really, really like him, but I wonder if it's just some sort of compensation for the hole of recent pasts inside of me.

Everyone gets hungry for things.

So I took my guitar
and I threw down some chords,
and some words I could sing without shame.

And I soon had a song,
I played it around
for some friends but they all said the same:

They said, "Music's for fools,
you should go back to school.
The future is prisons in math."

So I did what they said.
Now my children are fed,
'cause they pay me to do what I'm asked.

I forgot all my songs.
The words now were wrong,
and I burned my guitar in a rage.

But the fire came to rest
in your white velvet breast,
so somehow I just know that it's safe...

- "Death of a Salesman" by Low