At last, I am becoming anchored in a calmed position of new awareness. No longer romanticizing Monday morning rituals, fashioning sheets to crisp perfection, while degreasing his four poster bed.
I can still remember the overstuffed ashtrays that filled every vacant tabled edge of his apartment, strangely this memory makes me smile. At the same time, knowing the permeating dimensionality of the clutter and smell that was part of this hypnotic space has created a haunting imprint within me. I regret to report as the power of this hold lifts from me, it is leaving me emotionally disjointed.
With eyes soothed to a close, I can feel his bare feet resting on top of my naked legs. I imagine myself kneeling before him, folding freshly laundered sox’s to a tweaked perfection. With fluctuating shame, I admit in my private mind, that I habitually lust after our dead recollections. My nerves begin to tense and recoil in regret, I hate all of our razor edged memories and begin to release them one slash at a time. Yet I let them back in over and over throughout time.
Often I crave the warm and intense moments that we once shared, but those were few in comparison. As truth nears the abandon rooms of my mind, tacking reminders to it’s warm edges of denial. I slowly remember the endless activities, escapades, and events that I despised so intensely. Especially those with strangers, many against my will often ending in conclusive falsehoods. But it is the hypnotic influence of your voice and the constant wrestling between detachment and connection, conflict and heaven, no and yes. And of course one more slam, one more hit, three days running from electric to death. Addiction, regret, sex, fantasy, rushes, drugs, decay, death, filth, and rock with no soul.
To this day your vocal cords continue to twist up around my mind, a strangle hold of control. I won’t glorify my version of the stalkings as I recall them, I admit this would not be fare. They are also too painful to reflect on and present, I choose now to detach. I believe your tactics may have oddly worked, I jerk most days thinking of you. I wonder if this twisted brain wash choke hold will ever fully dissolve to an infinite fade.
Unthinkable, not one soul I know would wager that you could break the unbreakable. It has been a few 365’s. Again I ponder hard, was it the drugs? the sex? or was it simply a pile of misaligned and jumbled circumstances that happened to fall into place. Either way, I try to live by no guilt no shame no blame…
I have to ask myself, do I even hear what I am saying? do I even know what I am thinking, do I read what I am writing. I do – the loop does get thinner, it does get better, but it has yet to break.