Kairos

If you think you think you could

The most epically painfully wrong thing someone can be born with isn’t disease or a lack of feeling. In fact, at times, I consider entering the life of a thief. A thief of indifference, to steal the mind of a psychopath because of the nuisance that is feeling. They don’t feel, they don’t think, they simply wander. All a psychopath needs is room and some air to ingest and whether they are good or not is inapplicable because in order for them to make moves they would need judgement. In order to have judgement they would need feelings. And damned let these “feelings” be. They’ve never done anything good for me, they’ve never assisted me in the paths of love or anger or passion as so I am told they would do, as so I am told they were meant to do, as so I am told that make every day that we so-called “live” worth living.

 

Emotions are synonyms for hurdles which are synonyms for hardships which are synonyms for troubles which are synonyms for struggles which all come back to this one glowing, vial, source buried in the pits of all us misfortunately gifted with feeling, pain. Barely a day goes by when you don’t hear “I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all” and might I be granted one last pardon to say that is complete and utter bull. How would you know if you felt nothing? You’ve never felt before, so how can you compare and contrast your today to your tomorrow to your yesterday? To your desperation for a longer conversation, to your weight being nothing but still being too high, to your irrationally starry and bright day dreams that quickly turn into your lullabies? How can you possibly wake up in the morning in the same lousy string-ly knotted rope of thoughts and every word in repetition of formation goes “I miss you, I miss you, I miss you..” How could you? How could you, how could you, how could you even dare to let yourself go there, into a luxuriously lacking land of little lonely lyricists and lenient dispositions with a strenuous past behind them. You couldn’t, you wouldn’t, your beautifully psychopathic being is the best armor in the world, made of the finest metals and costing millions in manufacturing that you somehow conned out for free.

 

Yes fine, call me selfish and brisk and rude and a bit a miss or lonely but I will not listen. Tell me that happiness is a gift sent down from heaven delivered by angels wrapped in the paper made by the clouds in the factory hidden in the rays of sunshine and though I will be enraptured by the frivolity and nauseating youtheyness of your attempted convincings and I will listen, I will still try to become numb like them. I will try to depend on the skill of creating a blank space, a wall, between me, myself and I. Between me, my longings and the inside. Between me, love, lust. Between me and the things I miss that have never happened and between me and the things I want to feel but never do.

 

Sometimes I feel like if I felt the way I wanted to feel then maybe feelings wouldn’t feel so bad. I mean, that is what hurts the most, when you can feel yourself melting or you can’t stop yourself from disappearing. Then suddenly in those moments you’re hit with thoughts of who you should have lived for and that person is never yourself. That person is always always always someone who exists solely for a reason that will destroy you, who’s there to show you what you can never have or what you can’t ever make happen and then suddenly.. just so suddenly, you’re too deep into your feelings. Like you can drown yourself in drinking too much water when all you’re doing is trying to survive, you can drown yourself in this feeling of sadness and brilliance that burst in your core and spread through the veins in your upper back. You want it, you crave it, you strive for it but then… it’s desirability dulls and intensifies and you can just start to feel the numbing come on ever so slowly and it just adds to the pain.

 

After the numbing pain assists you in curdling, the rim of your neck always feels tight and you long for something or someone to feeling a passion for you that you feel for everything. You want someone to feel the drowning for you, you want someone to feel pain over you, you want, I want, someone to feel so damn strongly for us that they can barely stand to exist in only one body. That the embodiment of passion would become a thief of both indifference and bodies of the people closest to you so that they would get to know every discreet sweet inch of you constantly. You and I want someone to long for us so much that it hurts more than hell and is it too much to ask? Is too much ask to have someone’s full and legitimate and unscuffed, unshared, full love and attention and affection? After you decide yes, then, of course, someone comes along, someone perfect, some who finds you perfect, something perfect, some moment, some view, some thing, some note or some word that fills you with a returned fire that is impossible to put out. What is the point of feeling something unreturned?

 

This thing, this person, this “it”, comes along and they say “like” and “love” and choose from “really”s and “a lot”s and mostly “head over heel in”s. And you stand there feeling awful for feeling and feeling awful for feeling confused and feeling awful for whoever’s fallen in the trap of innocence you’ve set out. You beg them not to drown but they insist on forgetting to take breaths. Soon enough you’ve ignored the love enough and you’ve neglected its flowering enough times so that it dulls and you’re going through withdrawal. Withdrawal from the single most harmless drug there is, the adrenaline rush from a brush with butterflies. The trapped has gotten away and you now beg for their return and beg for their physical destroying after their mentality’s already been screwed by you. They return, you push them away.

 

Your prey’s been talking, your prey’s been sleeping and your prey’s been dancing to the tune of your voice and how it sounds when you say the word “love”, I miss you , I miss you, I miss you. A violent liking’s turned into a fierce endearment and you can tell your voice’s lullaby is just around the corner. Beg more and feel less, please? Just give me the knowledge of your gross attraction and let me the power to ignore it instead of catch onto the fire. The fire will burn, it will hurt, it will pull us into a sea of things felt and feeling. I will be the gasoline to the fire and you will sit and watch it burn in awe of how much such a small thing can destroy. Out of concern for the life of your heart, let yourself become unattached to emotion. Do not touch the things you love, do not save the thing you love, do not assist them in loving you. Do not ever mention the existence of love. Keep calm and stay psychopathic.

 

Please, if you think that there is a thing called love and for some reason you think that you could apply it to me, show me. Show me without sharing a thought, show me without sharing a word, show me without showing anything at all. Show me by sharing your numbness, show me by inflicting upon me a naturally born painkiller, pain murderer, and let me feel like a doll, moved from place to place with no true emotions. Show me you think you love me or think you think it would be possible for you to love me by feeling your way through my purple, fluorescent, sour tasting haze and feeling nothing but the breeze hitting the tip of your nose. Share with me a darling blank stare and an escape into mid air where to live we don’t need to breathe. Share with me this sense of no imagination and no request for a lofty dream’s ignition and please, if you think you think you could apply the word of love or kindness to me, repay me with a lack of pity.