Why is my hand picking up another glass of drink?
Her name was Jessica, and I cannot say that she was my best friend (though I insist that that tag is mostly a meaningless social construction...), but I can say that she has touched my soul in ways that I still awaken to, today. Through text messages, chat logs, snapchats that were effervescent and full of your Californian optimism, I learn more and more about who you are. Who are we to believe that our generation can digest the vast amount of information we receive on a daily basis? I feel like an idiot when I've finally realized, a month since you've left, that the wallpaper on my phone was one of your drawings...Give me a couple more years to review these thoroughly.
Sometimes, when one of your favorite songs come on, one of us would unleash the waterworks fervently and without warning. Just moments later, everyone else would match her expression, and all of us would completely shut down, regardless of how much we were laughing and joking around previously. We all weep for you, as synchronized as the best choir in the world. In this zone of collective individuality, each of us chases our individual memories with you, a love by association. A group love though recall.
Memories grow fonder with time, but they also fade into diluted, psychotic versions of what they were before. We sink deeper and deeper into the constructs of our own mind, convincing ourselves that the most recent version is the accurate version and that everything else is less than true. We intoxicate ourselves with these self-induced substances, and convince ourselves through the inebriation of our cells and the purge of salty tears to the outside world, that you are still okay. No, that's not quite right--that we are still okay.
Because there was no defining moment of tragedy on which I can pin all of my restlessness, I often find myself floating out of my body watching a blonde-headed Asian make decisions that I claim no part of.
Is my body me, or am I me?
Your situation was so differently from last year, when the girl who jumped from the window on the 6th floor splattered right in front of my window on the 1st floor. Nor do I have a roommate now who is so distraught as to scream or lose it. I think I need to lose it in order to find myself again. Can you make me feel again? I'd rather see your body than torture myself in a state of abyss and vague reconciliation. You leave me no visual to remember you by, leaving me to chase nothing but your shadow. But still, I will pick up my feet and run forward, because any action is better than standing in this quicksand of reminiscence.
Ah, everything is beginning to mix together...And yet I cannot find better words to describe myself than cheap metaphors and sickened cliches.
I lavish my belly with drinks and my mind with tasks, but a certain organ feels that its involuntary repetitive motion which has guided me since birth is suddenly little more than a chore. I am conscious of the processes that are happening to keep me alive, and wonder which of your organs had let you down in the end. What can you say? If we could keep an active dialogue with our internal selves, couldn't we then be a little more in control of our own lifespans?
Sink into sorrow. Understand the environment that is guiding your body and perceptions. Only then can you re-learn to swim. I hate to admit that your encounter was the only way for us to appreciate ourselves and the people around us. No longer self-sacrificing puppets of work, we think of ourselves as a renewed community. Through your unintentional sacrifice, you have left only hidden treasures of good feelings in your wake. I don't think everybody is capable of that, and I applaud you.
The hotfaced comfort of drink sets me at ease, but only briefly. Intensified emotions stun my tongue but my mind is finding words on its own, as my fingers struggling to document these words without disrupting their flow.
Currently on the train heading to a place conventionally called "home." But I know better now than to accept its permanence as truth.
Is my body me, or am I me?
Your situation was so differently from last year, when the girl who jumped from the window on the 6th floor splattered right in front of my window on the 1st floor. Nor do I have a roommate now who is so distraught as to scream or lose it. I think I need to lose it in order to find myself again. Can you make me feel again? I'd rather see your body than torture myself in a state of abyss and vague reconciliation. You leave me no visual to remember you by, leaving me to chase nothing but your shadow. But still, I will pick up my feet and run forward, because any action is better than standing in this quicksand of reminiscence.
Ah, everything is beginning to mix together...And yet I cannot find better words to describe myself than cheap metaphors and sickened cliches.
I lavish my belly with drinks and my mind with tasks, but a certain organ feels that its involuntary repetitive motion which has guided me since birth is suddenly little more than a chore. I am conscious of the processes that are happening to keep me alive, and wonder which of your organs had let you down in the end. What can you say? If we could keep an active dialogue with our internal selves, couldn't we then be a little more in control of our own lifespans?
Sink into sorrow. Understand the environment that is guiding your body and perceptions. Only then can you re-learn to swim. I hate to admit that your encounter was the only way for us to appreciate ourselves and the people around us. No longer self-sacrificing puppets of work, we think of ourselves as a renewed community. Through your unintentional sacrifice, you have left only hidden treasures of good feelings in your wake. I don't think everybody is capable of that, and I applaud you.
The hotfaced comfort of drink sets me at ease, but only briefly. Intensified emotions stun my tongue but my mind is finding words on its own, as my fingers struggling to document these words without disrupting their flow.
Currently on the train heading to a place conventionally called "home." But I know better now than to accept its permanence as truth.
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