Tuesday, November 7, 2017

...about my sunglasses


Click above to play/pause accompanied post music.

Dear you,

If you find this, I want you to know this is about more than the last time I saw you. This is about more than the beginning and the ending, more than the long drives, the even longer phone calls, and definitely more than the TV we watched in between all that.

This is about you
this is about me
This is about us. 

And I know saying those words in that order makes it sound like a relationship, and it was, just not that kind of relationship. It was platonic. Although, something about that word feels equally unjust. Was it romantic? No. Was it the closest I've ever been to someone? Yes.

This is the third time I've tried to write this, and I'm not sure it will be the last.

I still think about you.

I know this is pretty obvious, but I feel like I need to write it down. I still lay in bed crying. I try to imagine your reaction to this fact: do you feel guilty? Do you care? Do you do the same? I know how insecure that is, but it's the truth. I want to know that you're feeling some of what I'm feeling. That I mattered. I don't know whether or not I did, and sometimes I don't think you know either.

I also wonder if you have a roof over your head, if you're eating. If you're even in Utah. I've thought about going to your work, but I couldn't decide if it would be better if you were there, or better if you weren't.

I still find myself trying to climb out of the thought spirals. I know the relationship was abusive, but I'm constantly looking at individual moments in my head, like, 'Was that gaslighting? Or was that just him? Am I wrong?'

I miss having someone who would call me at 1AM just to tell me the plot of an entire episode of Always Sunny, usually out of order, because he was bored. Sometimes we would talk for hours about nothing. Other times, you would look ahead at the road while I cried. If you were hurting too, it didn't show.

I know it's irrational, but I'm scared I'll never be as close to another person again. You saw me at my best and worst; you watched me change, and I watched you change. It's so rare people change without growing apart.

Maybe we finally did.

If you find this, please tell me if you're okay. I need to know. I'm not sure if I'll answer, but send it anyway.

Also- I left my blue aviators in your car. Keep them, okay?

Yours,

-Solstice 

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Convenient Circumstance

I went back to the blogs today, 
the old ones

It made me feel things I had forgotten
It made me remember why I started writing in the first place

It broke my heart all over again.

Sometimes I miss being anonymous
Sometimes I miss being sad

I know none of this is rational
just like I know all of this is unsolvable,

But I'm scared I'm forgetting you.

A friend of mine asked if I would add them to Paris Underground the other day
and I spent 10 minutes trying to explain that no one uses it anymore,
(I'm fine with that)

But they insisted,
that's okay I guess

I don't think I'm the person I set out to be, (she's not real, but I'm close)
but are any of us, really?

Strangers call me 'miss'
Everyone calls me Sol (except my family)
I'm so much happier now

I've come all this way, faced my demons and grown, only to ask myself:

'Now what?'

Looking back, I still feel for the all the bloggers I've never met in person, and the ones I have
We all feel so alike here

(I'm disappointing in the flesh, amiright)

To think, after reading and commenting for years,
we still treat each other like strangers in the street,
I'm not saying that it's anyone's fault

I miss all of this,
it scares me how much I've already forgotten.

We're all victims of circumstance, but we're also victims of convenience.

Don't forget that.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Thirty-four


Click above to play/pause accompanied post music.

Dear friend,

It's June 2017. Summer.

Friends are back from college,
I'm someone's girlfriend now.
I have a social life,
I finally came out at work.
I'm working on another film,
I'm making enough money to move out.
I'm starting to love who I am,
I'm starting to look like who I am.

So why am I still so damn sad?

I still have trouble concentrating,
I'm still tired all the time,
I know what these are symptoms of.

But I'm not about to live in a world full of symptoms.

I know my mental illness isn't entirely in my control,
But I refuse to accept that.

I will do my best to be happy, to choose to be happy.
Yet more and more often, I'm finding myself in the spaces in between these words, vast.

It feels as though the symptoms get worse the happier I become,
I don't understand this concept.

I would pray to God if I believed in such a thing,
but she's much nicer in the abstract.

I've written the word 'I' twenty seven times already, (twenty eight)
and maybe that's the problem.

I (twenty nine) know this is likely something I (thirty) will struggle with my entire life,
statistically speaking.

I (thirty one) know we're all broken,
I (thirty two) know that's the point of all this.

I just wish
I could be broken
a little less.
(Thirty four)