Hi! It's been a while. I've been slacking with my writing lately, but I've missed it so much.
To start things up again, here is a piece about commitment and romance and all that jazz.
As per usual, it's also full of analogies and sadness. Yay!
Without further ado, here it is. Hope you enjoy!
Being alone is drowning.
Drowning in the air, no water present.
The fire ripples through your blood, but you can feel the ice rising to combat it.
A balance. A perfect fit.
You need them, need them to remind you once in a blue moon that you're worthy of something.
Worthy of a smile, of an apology, worthy of a conversation and of confessions.
You're terrified of losing that.
You've got all these empty holes in your head, needing to be sealed up and forgotten.
They hold the tools to do that, only they can keep you sane.
Being dependent on someone is unhealthy and you know it. But it seems ok, in a weird way, when you have your own toolbox reserved for them.
Losing them is what strikes the most fear into you.
Like an arrow, piercing your chest and head and heart.
You'll always find your way back to each other.
You go through boyfriends and girlfriends, heartbreaks and crushes, flings and dates, but you never shake them.
Life has a funny way of matching people up.
Sometimes for centuries, other times for seconds.
But you're matched, bound together by the harpsichords of hell and the heartstrings of heaven.
You don't like to believe in that crap, but it's oddly fitting to you.
You receive help when you least expect it, and it's usually from an unpredictable source.
You're reminded again of how much you really should be ignoring that fate of the universe rubbish, but somehow it's stinging you.
You will always find your way back.
Maybe not to home, maybe not to anywhere.
But you'll always find your way back to them.
And it's a lot of weight to carry. You've got your own shit going on, and you're trying to get through it all and the noises won't quieten, but you've got them now, too.
Life has a funny way of matching you so that you're of the same mind.
You take their weight, and so they take yours.
You can't always see them, hear them, speak to them, even spare them a thought, but - they're there, carefully lifting boxes off you so that you can bend in just the right way to lift their boxes back.
Life has a funny way of making you that flexible.
I suppose it's a nice thing to think, that someone constantly risks toppling over to save you.
But who else is going to save you, when you can't possibly manage it yourself?
The support, the perfect balance, the perfect match - you're always linked.
You will always find your way back to each other.
How couldn't you, when you never lost each other in the first place?
Then the doubts kick in.
Another victim succumbs to your hexes.
Love is often defined as a "strong feeling of affection."
You're not sure if it's affection. Just mutual support, through the hardest of times.
Maybe you care too much.
It's not love, it's no where close.
It's merely a self-defence mechanism, relying so deeply on another human.
You're intertwined, of course -
but what's going to happen when you're tired of all that lifting?
More doubts are filling you. The holes that they artfully covered over are being ripped open, the doubts replacing all that hard work.
The boxes keep getting heavier and heavier, you're unable to take their weight anymore.
What happens then?
You're letting them fall, and then they're gone.
Now that you've let them parish, how are you supposed to support yourself?
That seems to be what you do, apparently.
Suck up all the energy of another human, make them believe that you're forever, and then snatch that away when it's too heavy.
You're not sorry. You're insecure and afraid.
But that's just what you do.
You've said it before - you're terrified of losing them. Worried they can't hold you for much longer.
And fuck, you're so selfish.
Spin some romantic disarray about the Gods and then they're in.
You weren't tied, and you never will be.
Yes, being alone is drowning.
You realise that maybe that doubt is what drowns you, after all.
But, somehow, you prefer drowning than the commitment of lifting boxes for eternity.