Post-shattering the unswept floor.

I hold onto false ideas. Conceptions I have of the past that travel with me through time. Friendships with people I never communicate with…people who could die and I might not even find out. The comfort is there that comes from a lost intimacy I cling to, that’s dead. Holding me back from a tabula rasa, because I feel like I’ve already lived a lot of life. I guess that's kind of a paradox. And now I keep on truckin’ along like the little engine that plateaued. Memories foggy and intertwined and non-linear and non-sensical are losing their magic, losing their details, losing their gusto. And I wonder, what can I do to maintain that sense of wonder, that sense of self, in an existence that’s grown dull and unimagined. But my imagination is still there, killing me softly, good memories with past lovers who hurt me, people that I hurt too. Haunting me constantly, the good times, the comfort, the closeness, the love. It’s gone.

And I fail sometimes at strength. So often I feel weak. I text him and of course he doesn’t respond. I wonder how the fish I gave him died. Did he flush it down the toilet live, or did he just forget about it and starve the little guy to death? The beta fish. Carolina blue, that was his team. I asked him once if the fish was still alive and he said “no”. That didn’t give me a lot of closure. If he flushed it down the toilet alive, that would be a pretty good metaphor, a cheap metaphor, for everything that was and then wasn’t so quickly.

And I almost wasn’t and I want that person to feel like shit. But I don’t even think he cares.

And I say the Zoloft did it.

I say it was “medical mal-practice”.

My heart has been broken. I am so fucking broken. I want to think the pieces could make for a beautifully abstract mosaic, but really I still just feel like all the pieces are on a dirty floor some where in hell.

Maybe if I just let go of all the experiences that have lead to my sense of self, my sense of being, my identity…maybe if I just let it all go, I could live anew.  People I never speak to, they aren’t here. Their role in my life is dead and gone though they may live on.

I just wish I didn't have to dream about him. I wish I just could never sleep.

And it's not just one person. It's a collage of people. Beautiful moments that have left a bad taste in my mouth. And my body just feels icky, impure, and I know it's unfair. I shouldn't have to feel that way about myself. But I do. All of these naked phantoms leaving a sort of film on the entirety of me. Sticking around long after the person is gone, reminding me to hate myself. And I'm unable to hate the people that made me feel this way. Wishing they'd come back around and feeling stupid for feeling that way. No calls. No texts. No emails. No social media interaction. Dead. Nothing.