I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain to myself.
I follow the lines of your hands, with my eyes, the lines of your mind. We don’t know where we’re going, but we see the shore. I set my sails high before we crossed paths, tried to hold back, but every sharp turn left me wanting more.
I pressed the tissue against it, watching the blood fill the cheap, porous paper. Funny isn’t it, a little nic on your ankle that won’t stop bleeding and nobody bats an eyelid, but flash a cut on your forearm that barely got to bleed and the whole world thinks it’s a party they’re invited to. I spent the first three years of my adolescence anticipating body hair, and since then, I’ve spent everyday trying to remove it, and every other day, trying to remove you.
I’ve spent the best part of my year lying awake in the cold, begging for sleep to visit me, even for a couple of hours, wondering if this is all there is. I’ve cried the equivalent of British weather into my pillows, regretting so much, tearing myself apart piece by piece, trying to make everyone else happy, and all those nights I’ve wasted, bring me one lonely night closer to the end of my days, but it’s not what I want, not in the slightest. Even writing this, emptying the darkest and furthest corners of my mind, I’m screaming on the inside. But I don’t feel like talking, and I don’t know when I will again, all the parts of me that have been frayed, and destroyed, are aching with want for a better existence, a sense of worth greater than this. But there’s that fine line between being selfish, and knowing I’ve got to run away, before it’s too late. That fine line is buried beneath snapshots of everything I wish I could change. I’ve rarely known anything but sad, and that makes me even sadder when I think about how much happiness I’m more than ready to give other people.
If I had to summarise how I feel, I don’t think of much else, other than the colour grey and all the connotations that accompany it. It’s familiarity, the way it is easily recognisable, relatable, but nobody really warms to it. It’s misery, but strange kind of beauty in certain lights. The way it can transform a mediocre scene into a masterpiece of photography. But the dullness that is to be expected from it, is always there. Well, that’s how I feel, that’s what I think in - grey.
And then it struck me, how much life was like a patchwork quilt. So many years spent making it perfectly warm, pleasing to the eye, each stitch safely in place, holding your carefully selected squares close to one another, like writhing lovers following your movements every cold night. You’ll pass it down in the family, and it’ll keep your children just as warm as it always kept you. But, when things go wrong, and the stitches get pulled, creating cavernous pockets of air where there should be warmth, life gets cold. And for all those on the outside, looking in, it looks like the same reliable old quilt, each design cautiously placed, sewn to the next, painstaking hours spent holding it all together, but only you know, underneath is cold.
“This is something I wrote about somebody who means a great deal to me, who not a lot of my friends are very fond of, because of how he’s treated me in the past. But it’s one of those awful Romeo and Juliet situations where nobody can tell you to stop caring about that person or to stop putting effort into that person, because they don’t know them like you do. And it’s not even about knowing them, it’s about feeling what you know, like when you see a certain look in their eyes or something in their smile. And when you see those little things, all the misinterpretations about that person from everybody else don’t matter at all, because you can only go by what you feel, and what you feel is significantly stronger than what they think they know.”
I’m happiest in the dark.
- Adam Levine