Love. Lost.

Sadness inspires – I find the connotations of this rather grim, but I still can’t deny the truth of it. Why doesn’t happiness have the same effect, I wonder? Some of man’s best work was created in fits of rage, anxiety, insecurity and extreme pain.

A sad story is always a good story. I don’t like it at all, but I am a child of the same monster.

Even now as I feel my heart is breaking once again, I feel the need to write.

Is it because I need distraction? Is it because I need to get the ache out of me and writing is the only way I can do it? Or is it simply because sadness awakens creativity for some mysterious reason?

I don’t know. I don’t even care. I just want to write.

It is the most devastating thing when you realize that something you went through once and managed to come back from with so much difficulty can revisit you with every bit of strength than the last time. Even if it’s under different circumstances now, the hurt is just as overwhelming – worse because now you know from experience to expect hell.

I just want to run away from it. If that makes me a coward then so be it. I just want to get as far away from this feeling as I can. I’ll do anything.

Surgery? So a doctor can pull the intestinal strands of pain out of my stomach; extract the part of my brain that holds memories that are now longer valid; untangle the knots of hurt in my muscles.

A heart transplant perhaps? So that I can get a brand new one without any previous experience of breakage. So it can pump new, invigorated blood into my system and help me to come alive again. I am so tired of being dead.

Maybe I just need a new pair of lungs – something to help me breathe. My breathing feels so stilted, it hurts to take in the air; it’s an effort to push it out again.

I don’t know what it will take – I’ll do anything; I will take the medicine, no matter how bitter it is.

I feel I would need to write an epic to describe how I feel, but I neither have the perseverance nor the skill to do so. Yet, I have this bursting inside of me to write something that will make people weep to read it, that will pierce their own experience, divide up some of my hurt and make them cry for me so that I wouldn’t have to fear drowning in my own tears.

I wish I could write an ‘In Memoriam’ to my Love. Love that is dead. Love that meant everything but has now been reduced to nothing. Love that never should have been. Love that killed me, like a snake, with a slow poison that let me bathe in blissful ignorance until that split second before everything fell apart.

But my fingers fail me. My command of the language isn’t sufficient, and I am haunted by my own inadequacies, on so many levels.

I am sitting here in the middle of my house, crumbling away while no one notices. And I don’t want them to. Pain this extreme is always best handled alone. I don’t want comforting lies – I should be an expert on those by now. But I still let them ruin me.

I pause in my writing, exhausted. There is so much more to say.

I want to hurt, to maim, to kill, to humiliate. Such ugly emotions. I want to drag my deceitful Love in front of an accusing audience – millions of faces that look like mine – strip it bare and show the world how false it all is. I want the fingers to point, I want the guillotine rushing down, I want to be covered in the blood of a love that was never mine, I want it to have never existed, I want to take some of the power it took from me and be its executioner. I want everyone to learn from my mistake. I want realisation to wash over them like the deadly ring of radiation rushing outward after a nuclear bomb.

I am that bomb, along with my Love. And we have destroyed each other.

More, more, my hands seem to whisper. I barely concentrate on the words on the screen, but instead watch as my fingers fly over the keys as if possessed by demons.

I’ve heard that the pen is stronger than a sword but my words feel blunt and useless to convey how I feel. Instead they hack at my open wounds, making the hurt worse. Everything makes it worse.  I want to direct the hurt at its cause but it is impervious to my pain. Unmoved. Cold, like dead stone.

If my words were bullets, they would merely deflect off my unfeeling Love and come streaming back to hit me square in the chest. Killing me yet again.

And, for the millionth time, Love has won and I have lost.

pain_by_markomao

Pain, by markomao
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15 Comments Add yours

  1. Suri says:

    “I want to hurt, to maim, to kill, to humiliate. Such ugly emotions.”

    I think those emotions are a result of a love corrupted. As if you had built a beautiful ship in tribute to love, but now it’s sailing through your seas hijacked by pirates.

    Continue writing – it is so beautiful, even if what you are feeling isn’t. And if nothing else, that is something to take away from what you’ve experience.

  2. Springflower says:

    May you find the strength to get through your pain and find peace and happiness once again. Reading through this beautifully written post, I felt like you have written exactly what I am feeling right now.

  3. bugger says:

    the silent scream of frustration. beautifully reminiscent post. i dont think its completely true that all people would give you comforting lies. me for example. and a true friend of course. hatred is not good. period. its not good for the soul. i’ve had many experiences with people that fucked with me. it would be really easy to hate them. to forgive them for their evil you must. things end up for the better if you get rid of your hate. fighting fire with fire fucks yourself up more than anything else. theres a reason why they call it a high road. its pretty cliched that youve got to talk to people about the crap in your life. but its true. i need to take my own advice. hit me up sometime. we might end up having kids that turn into underwear models

  4. bugger says:

    :D i think

  5. Makuluwo says:

    Wow I haven’t read all your previous work yet, but this was one of your best for me.
    My forehead actually hurts from furrowing so much reading this because the pain you’ve tried to express, although possibly not equal to what you feel, was definitely conveyed.

    So true about getting creative inspiration from sadness! Just yesterday I was wondering why. Maybe we put more passion into our sorrows than into our joys.

  6. “Some of man’s best work was created in fits of rage, anxiety, insecurity and extreme pain” – That is down right bitter truth, i started writing to pen out the pain and bitterness out of me, brought out the creative writing, but its the same pain which i lost the love for writing too.

    Hope you’d have more to write…even if its painful or of happiness..

    No one is going to hear the silent scream, the tears that burn the inside of ur eye or that block in ur throat when keeping thinking of what eats out the most…

  7. Vivi says:

    Recently, someone I am close to told me that he could listen to me for hours, not only because he cares, but also because my “sadness is artistic and beautiful”. I was dumbfounded. Artistic? I wanted to scream at him. You think this fucking pain is beautiful? to me it isn’t. But you know something, T, after reading your post, I have changed my mind. It is. When it is articulated like this. Maybe beauty can be found everywhere, maybe it is a great work of art, and we have to craft it, bit by bit. Because in the end, it is life. I love your writing. I love the way you care, and the way you inspire (me) :) Hugs. You are going to be fine, I know it.

  8. thebohemiangypsy says:

    Thanks everyone, for your comments and encouragement.

    Vivi – This is perhaps the most beautiful comment anyone has left for me. I guess it’s true that pain inspires good work because everything you write, draw, sing, paint or sculpt comes straight from raw emotion that you’re dying to get out of you and share with anyone who will listen. You’re working out of need, not necessity, so it will always contain your view of what is true. And I believe truth is beauty. I feel the same way about you – thank you for caring and your inspiration. Hugs.

  9. The pain that lingers in your heart comes out in beautiful essays that we eagerly wait to indulge in, every so often. Had your life been a bed of roses, we wouldn’t have ever feasted on your writing. Call me selfish, but I wouldn’t have loved your essays if you wrote without passion. There shall be a day when you are fully compensated, so don’t worry. ;)

  10. Anne says:

    How can people be so self obsessed ? Beats me

  11. thebohemiangypsy says:

    Serendib – Thanks, that was a lovely thing to say.

    Anne – Our blogs, our lives, our right :)

  12. Vann says:

    so Beautiful….i cried…… Love Love Love u 4ever

  13. thebohemiangypsy says:

    Van – Seeing your comment made me want to cry as well. Thank you for everything. Love you back.

  14. thebohemiangypsy says:

    Believe me, so did I.

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