I could spend my years travelling south,
and somehow, I’d still find traces of you lingering.
It’s been almost 9 months since the last time,
yet, I’m sure I can identify you by
the light shining through your curls.
I swore I left you behind, I followed the book,
I did all the ceremonial things,
but I still see you in the corner of my eye.
The wind has worn grooves into your bones,
the dust settled deep as you atone,
your lips tremble and quiver
under the weight of your smile.
I forget the simple truth that you are as human
as I am, choosing to remember you by your halo
in the setting sun than the red eyes and shy smile.
I used to listen to this on repeat day after day, like my life depended on the continual presence of this song. I would listen to this song as I travel to college and back; I’d hum it to myself when I was getting ready; I used to listen to the violin cover as I worked; I would write the lyrics on the shower cubicle and the image would burn into my eyelids when I close them. And I suppose for my younger self, my life did depend on it.
When I was young, my whole life was dedicated to this pursuit of a fresh start in a place further than I can imagine. I put my whole faith on the magical healing power of this place far far away, and for a while, it was my only coping mechanism. Everything I did only drummed in how claustrophobic I felt when there was such a big world out there, and I was stuck in a tiny town wasting away, feeling suicidal with a mind about to explode.The lyrics encouraged me to keep on living to find this place where no one knows my name, and become this person who, I thought, would let the freshness of the new air wash away the sadness.
I’ve been better these days, not necessarily in the severity of my sadness but the frequency of the downward spirals. I started thinking about that period of my life again when the song unexpectedly came on shuffle; it’s strange that this song, which was once so ingrained to my being did not even make it to a playlist. I thought about it, as someone who has moved to their version of Boston and still remain unsatisfied, of going further afield. I wonder just exactly what would happen if I decide to drop all contact, and purchase a one way ticket out of this country. Where would I go? It doesn’t matter. All that matters is now with my newfound wisdom, I have realised that the emotional baggage I carry can never be left behind, and it was quite possibly one of the worst coping mechanisms I have.
It is terrible to ignore your problems and pray they never come back to haunt you, this is not a situation where ignorance is bliss. Eventually, there will be another breakdown and Boston will only contribute to it. It’s disheartening and demoralising to make yourself confront this fact, and the period following is filled with much fear and uncertainty. But depression makes you a survivor every single day because you are still here when you have the choice not to be, because your whole world is turning against you and still you find some courage to keep waking up, because despite the pain and sorrow you feel, there is this animalistic part of you that is roaring for another day, and I think this is a good enough source of comfort for those rainy days.
I wish I had the privilege of leaving you.
The privilege to explain the yearning I have
to cry to all your favourite songs, and to
look for your face even at places you’ve never been.
Pretending we ended on a bang has become a safe retreat;
please forgive me for deceiving us by dreaming of
something bigger than we could ever be
to refill this void.
Now your eyes ain't moving
now they just lay there in their climb
Two headed boy,
there is no reason to grieve
I have spent so much time overthinking part two, that it never crossed my mind to listen to part one. How did I possibly expect to understand this story when I enter halfway through the plotline? It was doomed from the start.
I made an appointment with a counsellor at my current university last week. I’ve been putting this off for a long while. It feels strange knowing I’ll never talk about nonsense to you again, it feels weird acknowledging this new chapter, and confessing this to you in this manner. You slowly became as much of a constant in my life as college and homework and stress; I don’t think I’ve ever told another person so much about myself.
You told me I don’t necessarily have to start from the very beginning with whoever I have this time, I don’t know if this is the case. I feel like my current problems are constant and ongoing, but my older problems are too, and I never completely dealt with them. They got buried under the plethora of new problems, I’m not sure how to proceed from here. I want to bring them back to the surface and properly solve them to try for a clean slate, though I feel like I’d only be picking at old scars and reopening partially healed wounds. If my education in medicine has taught me anything, it’s to get to the root of a problem or waste your time and resources.
I don’t want to start from the beginning again; I am so tired of my past self, I didn’t like myself very much back then and I still don’t. I want to forget it all but this is proving to be a little bit difficult.
Gillian, I want to tell you about this lovely Friday when I got the most drunk I have ever been and felt so content and peaceful. I’ll copy over what I wrote on my tumblr when I got back.
I’m currently at that lovely state where I don’t want to sleep because I don’t want the night to end even though it’s half 4 and I am so drunk and tired and I have so many lectures to do tomorrow.
I’m okay with this battle to keep my eyelids open because tomorrow is another day and I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I do know for sure that right now, I am in a state of euphoria with a perfect balance of drunk and contentness. I love people who don’t make me feel alone. I love floor 2 prison block.
I hope you are well.
And in my dreams,
you’re alive and you’re crying,
because maybe there are two sides
to every story but not necessarily
And maybe the protagonist is still standing
even after a Shakespearian style tragedy,
not a single speck of dust anywhere.
And maybe the next time the memories
come flooding back, you won’t find yourself
cursing the damnation of que sera sera.
So maybe blue eyes won’t always
be a reminder of drowning in grey rain.
So maybe the shrine for the lovers
can finally be forgotten.
A remix and continuation of Summer Rain