So la-da-dee-da-deee, we like to pardeeee…
Dancin’ with Molly, doin’ whatever we wa-a-aaaaaant….
This is our house, these are our rules…
And we can’t stop… and we won’t stop!!
(-Bastille cover of ‘Can’t Stop’)
I could tell you how I feel, or maybe just show you?
A gallery–[warning: some self-harm in the following pictures]
People talk about their exes, the lovers and bfs and efs and gfs and people who have screwed them up–rarely do people mention breaking up with friends. You don’t break up with a friend; you move, or grow apart, or stop having time for each other. It is not an eruption, rather an imperceptible but gradual tectonic shift in life situations that usually erodes friendships. Destroy being too strong of a word. However, you and I broke up. There was shouting, tears, angry words. Cold, long, unbreakable silence. And when I made new friends who seemed like they could be who you had been to me, I annoyed them by mentioning you too much, exactly as someone annoys a current partner by talking too favorably or too often of an old one.
The kicker about losing a friend you’ve had from childhood is that the vernacular of your friendship is so entrenched, it seemed at times I couldn’t go a single day without seeing SOMETHING that reminded me of you. A cup of coffee, a certain star we’d crushed on, a person with curly black hair… You were and continue to be reactivated in my memory through sight, sound, touch, taste and smell–the places we walked, jokes we made, foods we ate, songs we heard, words we used. Like Proust and his fucking madeleine dipped in tea. A tiny trigger could put me in a mood… and now here you were after what… two years? Three now?
On the phone.
“Hello?’ you said and I said ‘hello?’ about two times more than necessary, as if I didn’t recognize your voice, but yeah right. Right? You had me at ‘hel’ ~_~ I knew it had to be you.
It’s funny, I’ve fantasized about this conversation for literally years. I wondered what it would be like, if you would ever want to talk to me again, if I would be happy the day you finally came around; if I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, or if we truly wouldn’t talk and at some point in the far future one of us would hear from a friend of a friend of a friend, ‘oh yeah, xxx? They died last month…’
That sounds melodramatic, but humans DO actually die.
Right? We are mortal??
Not just like in dem books.
I’ve spent this last month under a lot of anxiety. I’m going through a strange period of my life right now. I can’t say it is necessary bad. Just difficult. Like Akagi said, the sand at the bottom of Hell is magical sand.
A lot of the pics I’ve drawn lately have been violent, disturbing or sad. A lot of them have to do with self-harm and a feeling of doubt, exactly what you have expressed to me on the phone. I wondered while I was drawing if these pics had any value, if they were too emotional or personal to mean anything to someone other than myself. In other words, if I was wasting my time.
It’s extremely serendipitous that just as I was thinking these thoughts you called. And I heard in your voice not the desire even to be loved, though of course, everyone wants to be loved. I heard the desire to have something that demanded that you throw yourself into it, that you live, not just exist.
I won’t talk about the stuff you said, of course, all of that is confidential and no person’s business, but I will say thank you for calling me again and making me feel like I am doing something right. You managed to remind me of the important thing–that when you create anything, you are living. As you said, tasting life. And so long as you are doing that, it is impossible to be wasting your time.
“I’m sick of this John Greene generation–sadness is not romantic, nobody is going to come kiss your scars or discover you reading Bukowski in a bookshop. You’ve got to be your own hero.” -rough paraphrase of some internet quote
I actually find it pretty easy to find people who will kiss the scars, it’s just that the kisses don’t make them go away. The antidote to sadness is not always love. Often, sadness is the overwhelming ache to be useful, to be productive, or to find satisfying expression, and no, you cannot be your own hero, because you don’t live in a vacuum. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a prince or a princess or a princez on a white horse who drags you out of your rut, but you need a relationship and productive dialogue with something.
Art will not kiss your scars, but on the other hand, you can come to it again and again and never impose upon it, never fear that maybe this time your complaining and pus and tears will drive it away. You made me realize I am very lucky and I hope I can help you too at some point in the near future, dear friend.
It was really good to hear from you. <3