Random anonymous (and not so anonymous) angst postings:
Superhero slash angst
Data loss angst
Google privacy concerns angst
ds_snippet snippet - This Is Not A Love Song
Response to love letter 18 - Try
Anonymous angst snippet series and who they were sent to:
I. He needs to get away. Away from the knowing glances, the prying eyes. And the looks that try to see beyond the I'm-all-rights and the I'll-be-fines into the broken partnership that was the aftermath of a series of wrong choices.
The pitying stares grate on his stretched nerves. It makes him feel naked and exposed, like everyone can easily see how damaged he is. He had hoped that the cracks wouldn't show on the outside, allowing him to pretend to normalcy, but he realizes now that this sort of thing leaves a visible swathe of destruction across the rough terrains of your soul.
II. He had thought that it'd been a single bad decision, but in reality, it had been a whole series of them. And he has no way to undo them, erase them, make them gone. No matter how much he wishes or hopes, he still wakes up alone.
Alone, and reaching for another. Stretches out his hand and it closes around empty air. His breath catches in his throat as he wakes to the realization of how forsaken he really is.
III. And the actions that led up this? Well, he's not sure how much influence he would have had to change that downward spiral. No matter how he analyzes it, he reaches that same damn conclusion. And is still left alone. Partner-less.
It had take a long time to build the trust between them. The two of them, circling each other, fighting, always fighting. The constant threat of violence. And then the slow realization that this was a partnership, and that partnerships, like any other relationship, took work. And trust. But they had fallen back into their old habits and had taken those first steps toward the end.
IV. His body feels strange to him, off. And it takes him a while to puzzle it out. When he does, there's a moment of relief, that he's figured out what has been subconsciously bothering his body. It is used to another's presence, close enough to brush against him as they walked. A presence that he let get close. And then it sinks in. That presence is not coming back.
Ever. He wonders how long it will take for his body to forget, to get used to not having someone close. And if that is something he actually wants.
V. For the first time in his life, he finds it hard to sleep. He closes his eyes and sees. Replays those last, critical moments before disaster. And, in his mind, tries to change the outcome. And fails.
Again and again. He's always been intimately connected with failure but this time, this time it was for keeps. And this last failure leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and an empty space in his chest where his heart once beat.
VI. Sometimes he feels maybe he's meant to be alone. Solitary. Like punishment for unspoken crimes. He misses the warm body curled up next to him. And the quiet breathing. So very much.
He's always cold now. Even at the height of the summer he still feels chilled and clammy, feels the grip of dark waters closing over his head, pulling him down, down into despair. Sometimes he thinks he should stop fighting and let it take him under.
VII. Often, he dreams. And in those dreams, he's whole again. Half of a whole that warms his soul and makes him feel alive. And when he wakes, there's a moment where that heat bleeds over from dream to reality. But it's only for a moment, and that moment is fleeting.
And that's all that he has left, these fleeting dream moments. A handful of sand against an entire beachful of could-have-beens. Too quickly reality touches him with cool fingers and his solitary bed feels enormous.
VIII. Sometimes, he feels like going north. There, at least, the landscape will reflect the desolate landscape inside of his heart. But he can't contemplate leaving their familiar haunts. Sometimes, it feels like those haunts are all he has left of him.
Sometimes, he feels like going south, down into the deserts of the west. There, the landscape will still reflect the bleakness of his soul, but the memories might ease their choke hold. There are no shared spaces in the desert, no repositories of emotion and ideas to encounter and brood over.
IX. He can almost forget. For extremely brief periods of time, he forgets and the sharp pain in his chest eases. He worries about the future, worries about forgetting for larger and larger spans of time. He doesn't want to forget what he's lost.
And he's lost a lot. He's lost his partner and friend. But there are other things, subtle things. He's lost his faith in himself. He's lost the trust of those around him. He's lost the ability to meet his own eyes in a mirror, to not flinch away from the image of what he's become.
X. It scares him. He's comfortable, well, maybe not entirely comfortable, with that pain his chest. But what happens when the pain is less sharp? When the memories blur? He cannot bear the thought of forgetting even the smallest moment.
He pulls his memories out of their box and holds them, touches them, acquainting himself with their look and feel, the size and shape of them. He wonders if memories are like your body, needing to be worked in order to stay strong. Or whether they fade a little with each use. He's not sure, so he tries not to do this too often, for fear of wearing them away.
XI. He walks through the cityscape of Chicago, trying to find solace. He looks in all the usual places, behind dumpsters and down alleys, but he seems to have misplaced it. And he's not sure if finding it will help. He's still alone, still broken, still missing the best part of himself.
Sometimes, when he's searching, he finds other bits and pieces that he'd long since forgotten about. He finds some leftover hope under the sofa. Some happiness wedged behind the refrigerator. When he finds them, he gets the dustpan out, sweeps them up and throws them away.
XII. He dreams of being touched. It feels so real that he starts to believe it is. In his dreams, he can forget that he's been left alone. But when he wakes up, nothing has changed. Still alone.
He flinches away when others try to touch him in simple comfort. All he can think, when they do touch him, is nothimnothimnothim. It's an unconscious reflex now, to move away. And each time he feels a step further away from their life and everything that was in it.
XIII. The blankets and sheets still smell like him. Warm and musky, a smell that is uniquely his. Sometimes he buries his nose in the bedding and inhales, slowly, savoringly. Remembering. Wanting.
He has refused to wash the bed clothes since that terribly fateful night. He lies there, eyes burning, and lets the scent wash over him, taking small comfort from the familiar smells. For a moment he images a warm weight lying against him. He can almost feel it. But when he opens his eyes he finds that he's still alone.
XIV. The music helps, sometimes. If it's loud enough, it can drown out the refrain that circles in his head, he'sgonehe'sgonehe'sgone. And then, in the quiet of his mind, he can sleep. And dream of the heat and the touch and the smell of him.
And there are other times when the music doesn't help, just pulses a counter-beat to the wrongness in his head. The wrongness that he cannot escape. It drags him to the boundary of his sanity and pushes him over. And he's not sure he minds.
XV. He wonders if he can live in his dreams. There, at least, he doesn't feel broken and raw and exposed by this pain that lives in his life. There, he comes alive. Escapes from this shadowed life he (doesn't) live with the jagged pieces of his broken soul.
In his dreams, everything is bright. The constriction around his chest eases a little and he can breathe deeply. He feels safe, in this not-place of his dreams. It's the only place he feels safe. And it never lasts for very long. Never long before he remembers and wakes up with a gasp.
XVI. He hopes he doesn't live for a long time. Living is hard enough to bear when he doesn't think of the future. When he thinks just of the now. But looking down this long, long corridor of time stretched out in front of his life, he's scared. He will go out of his mind with the loneliness.
In spite of that, he can't bring himself to end it. He doesn't want to imagine the disappointment that would cause. And somewhere, deep inside his secret heart, he feels that maybe he deserves this heartbreak. A reward for all the times he's failed.
So he can't end this half life that he's living. But he thinks about it, a lot.
XVII. When it's his time, he thinks he will go gladly, eagerly. There's nothing left for him in life, with the best of him torn loose. Slowly bleeding to death but not dying. Not living. Not without him.
Sometimes he hears a whisper of sound in his ear. Sometimes he feels the careful brush of a warm body next to him, smells that familiar scent. Sometimes he sees an accustomed shape out of the corner of his eye. His heart beats faster. And then the wind blows and everything snaps back into sharp, sharp focus and he's still alone.
XVIII. He wishes he was haunted. Even an incorporeal presence would make it easier, less painful. Not so irrevocable. Not so lonely.
He doesn't look for hope, only grace. And even that seems to elude him.