The intimacy of my mind
October 2 2011
I built a paradise for myself, in my mind where I only saw what I wanted to see. A disillusion so thick I began to think it was real. The two or three words that we exchange daily, or bi-daily, felt like 2000-3000 and I tricked myself into believing that you were weighing each words importance the same way as I. No matter how farfetched it seems now, I started to believe my thoughts—hopes and desires were starting to all meet. It was a mistake I thought I would be intelligent enough to avoid but unfortunately was not. Now I surely won’t be able to look you in the eye—speak—without thinking how far apart we are; me calculating each word’s measure, while you count the moments until you are free; me praying that the next minute will last the rest of my life, while you continue to check your watch.
The worst part is I never found my voice, and now I never will find it—at least to speak to you. I came close once but while trying to perfect each and every word, making sure they all fall into place perfectly, you left and left me with a mouthful of nonsense, by myself. I don’t even know what I would want to say if I ever found my voice; I think I would start speaking and never stop because if I did then the moment would come when you looked back at me, your eyes opened wide and your half smile insincere. Your head would be tilted slightly to the right with a mix of pity and bashfulness, your words cocked to confirm the suspicion I tried to suppress. And your speech would be short, much shorter than mine, but more to the point. Yes, I have run the moment through my head a thousand times—I even dream it night after night but even there the ending is not a happy one.
There are two types of people in this world, I am the first and you are the second. Simply, I am hardwired to search for love and so I fall too quickly and too hard. I think about it all the time, the emptiness the thought seems to bring. And each time I think that the perfect script has been written I find that I am back to square one. In my head I picture Romeo and Juliet, the greatest love story ever written—perhaps it would be more accurate if Juliet was just in it for the thrill and Romeo wasn’t all that great anyway.
I pictured some type of climax beyond just a simple realization, that you are not the person that I pictured and love stories don’t truly exist. The world brings people together and tears them apart, no reason in its randomness. Our vague existence in each other’s lives is temporary and for no other reason than chance. I’m sure we will go our own wayward ways and never meet again, soon enough. Perhaps if you weren’t so beautiful—pretty—exuberant I wouldn’t mind so much and my insanity would feel less sane. But unfortunately, things are the way they are, no better or worse.
Let’s go back to being bare acquaintances, borderline strangers that only acknowledge each other’s presence in the most unusual of circumstances. Then I can stop thinking about each moment that I took as a tiny victory and see them for what they really are, wasted moments where I tricked myself into thinking there was even a shred of hope. They were little moments, fleeting at best, lasting only a few seconds to a few minutes but after I ran them through my head near a million times they started to add up. It’s funny how now they all start to blend together but at the time each one seemed like the fulcrum point between reality and dreams.
I can’t help but wonder how long these words will stay relevant or if they will even mean anything by morning but right now they are all that I have. And I have to ask myself why I am even writing at this moment, as if a manuscript written to myself will make you fall in love with me. At the very least perhaps it’s a plea for pity. Maybe it’s a continuation of my deeply woven disillusion, as if these very words are some continuation of a story that never existed. Even by the very slightest of slight chances you ever manage to read these words you will certainly never make it this far and more than certainly assume that they are about somebody else—for that’s the thing about being born without a voice, I have no way of communicating through rational methods or anything above a simple guessing game.
I must have lost my mind somewhere along the way, being stuck in one place for so long with no reason to believe. But now, as I try to vanquish the thoughts from my mind all I can think of are the moments you shared when I wasn’t around. But I don’t want to know of those for with my limited knowledge and intelligence my cerebral cortex is filled with all the information I can handle.
I’m left with nothing but a story I wrote with thoughts and wishful thinking. I would bang my head against the wall but I fear that might bring about clarity. For my simple mind and lack of a tongue seems to always get me in trouble, makes me want to bang my head against the wall. If I only knew how to speak then perhaps everything would be better—but knowing me I would only make it worst.
I feel like I am having an argument with myself, trying to win myself over and sway myself into seeing how incredibly arrogant and disillusioned I have been but… But… But… There doesn’t even seem to be a thought I can write to fit that sentence. Surely I have lost my mind over nothing, for life in all respects is no different than it was yesterday but today there is no hope, daily routines that are just that, nothing more—it isn’t all leading to some greater world with a happily ever after, it’s just all leading to the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next until before I know it I will have wasted every moment, every moment wasted on the disillusions that were once the image of you.
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