Musings And Questions/Short Stories For The Mentally Tired

An Unknown (Functionally Gone) - 13/07/23

To continue in a separate manner, but the same as the previous chapter: You and I.

These chapters aren't meant for any particular people right now. At least, not anyone as perceived in the typical sense. All the five commonly thought of and numerous sub-senses. Regardless. I am the one writing this. This is a story for me, and if you read it, what you take from it is up to you. Among authors, this is commonly called a "trunk story." It's something written for yourself and when you die is intended to be destroyed.

I can remember, that it was blonde hair. I think the eyes on you, were blue. But I can't/don't know for certain. I can say that you were of average height, or maybe slightly taller. I can say you were scientifically inclined. I can say that there was a time filled with great happiness. And that there was a time filled with some of the greatest sorrow I've ever felt. You were root for both. But what kind of root? One of poison? Or one of health? Or maybe you were masquerading as one or the other. A onion. You liked that movie. Didn't you?

You've always been splashed in red. It swept across you. But you were also tinged in teal. We talked about it. You heard a name. It was yours, and it belonged to you. I hate it. But it is a hate without any heat. Just as a love without heat hurts, so does a hate. Apathy. Lethargy. The lack. Dis-care.

I can feel you. Your lack of presence. Your constant hovering. You not being here anymore. The fact, that I know but don't know. Don't want to know, and crave for knowing all the more. Like a melody with a single note removed. Beautiful, but grating. A harmony, with an extra note added. No longer meshing together as it should. An extra half second of awareness. A lack of anything to be aware of. My mind buzzes in recognition at mundane things with relation but no ties. You pick at me like a child picks a scab absently.

Perhaps I need to take something. Something to let my mind register what lives in it, to let it out. To shout, scream, talk, debate, sob, and smile with. To see. To hear. Smell. Touch. But none of it will happen. Because you can't be real. You were real. We spoke for so long. So often. And then it became clear. That you were real. And then weren't anymore. It was a pair of faults. Like the lines that run the world around. Grating against each other. I was one. You were the other. Neither could be correct. But one was, and one wasn't.

Hate without heat. Reality without substance. Relation without ties. Somehow... It is known. Between myself to the Nots. I'm sorry. I was always sorry. I'll never be sorry. I come apart at the atoms.