The past few months have not been kind to me nor I to them. I have tried everything from distracting myself in all forms of media to toiling with emotions to maybe wrangle myself to a conclusion - all to no avail.
The days get harder, whereas they should be getting easier. Every passing moment feels like the failing of my mental decoupling torments me further. I am trying to work towards this, but I am not able. It is as though I have created a mental graph of the world and I can connect them to any action. I am thoughtful, but this has bordered on an obsession that I do not cherish. It is making working hard, thinking hard, living hard.
Images of better times have been flashing in my head at random points throughout the day, exhausting me further into a shell of what I used to be. I fear that this is the harbinger of something even deeper and that I do not know how much deeper I can go.
There has nary been a moment of content and that is troubling. The handful of times I have been blessed with some semblance of peace have been marred by the inbound waves of meta-contemplation that ground me back to the endless heedless ennui.
I have been feeling a significant deal of anger towards them. The way they handled it, knowing full well the fragility of the situation and my feelings towards them. I do not know what I wish for them, but I do wish they think about love when they think about me; that they regret what they did. Even if self was at the core of their motivum, I wish they realized that they lost something great.
This might be why I have been struggling as much as I have. I keep wishing things of them. That they feel ill about their misdeeds, that they regret, that they work on their world to not hurt anyone else in the magnitude they have me. I should instead focus on the pain that is within me, why I have not been able to let go. It is something I have always been bad at.
I have seen new images of them since our reassignment into strangerdom. I cannot shake this uncanny feeling that they look different. Not just in the sense that they are a different person, but in the sense that prior to knowing them images of them had this same uncanny feeling to them. And for the short period of our lives intertwined, their images looked different. Maybe I took the majority of their pictures at that time and my point of view and approach differed from the others’.
I think it is something else. They are other in a sense that I have yet failed to grasp, but I hope I will be able to. Maybe reading “White Nights” was an error on my part.