So, there you were, living the dream, or so it seemed, idly traipsing about in a world of warmth that can only be characterized as infatuation. You know they call it a crush because that's the action carried out in the end, but dreams are all about the present, floating in the moment, drifting on from one pleasant flashpoint to the next, and so you get mystified into myopia and you miss all the telltale signs. You know the ones, those clues telling you that none of this is real.
But then the person you're leaning up against, the object of your affection, stands up abruptly and you in your trancelike state tip over suddenly unsupported so that you're staring up at the person standing over you, a somewhat bemused look on your face because you still don't get it, not yet.
They scratch their head and say sorry, this isn't what it looks like. Sorry, forgot to mention something. Sorry, this is your wakeup call.
Sorry, sorry, sorry.
The word echoes in your ears as the dream collapses and reality comes crashing down on your head.
Here comes the crush, but it's so cold, cold, cold, and your stomach feels tight and constricted, like you suddenly don't know how to relax a muscle that you've never had control of anyway, and there's this feeling that you've never felt before, and you don't know what it is, but you're cold and sweating all at once, and oh god it's pain, pain, pain, the realization as horrifically horrendous as the feeling itself.
Here you are, having stumbled over an emotion that you didn't recognize, now experiencing a sensation that you didn't want to, not ever, and you never thought it could happen to you, not without you seeing it coming first, and the whole situation just strikes you as ridiculous.
You were blind and now you've been blindsided, simple as that.
Now you're awake and you realize that the world as you saw it through your rapidly moving eyes was distorted and warped beyond recognition, and what's more is you were the only one suffering from somnambulism, so as you sit there holding your face in your hands trying to put the pieces together, everyone else is all too willing to help you out because they know how it all fits.
What follows is the loneliest time of your life. You don't want to see anyone, you don't want to talk to anyone, you don't want to do anything, and so you lock yourself away and turn to no one, and turn inward, and turn off completely. Just flip the switch and lie down and try to sleep.
But you can't.
In your isolation, you mull over all the facts the waking world has thrown into your face with all the spite, and the sting, of a glass of wine. You are alone. Your best friend is the source of all your misery. You were their dirty little secret.
What's next is damage control because even though your best friend isn't anything more than that, you don't think you could go on if they were anything less. So now your every step is taken with the taint of trepidation because you're so scared that they'll notice your eyes have turned green. You can't stop thinking about all the things that make them happy, and how none of those things are you.
It's a bit of a tug of war for who gets to take the blame, and even though they try to shoulder the weight, you steal it away without their noticing, but what good does that do anyone? You don't really care because you guess you're supposed to suffer and you've sort of gotten used to the pain by now anyway.
You're not numb.
You know so because every night you lie awake in bed trying to get back to sleep. You're awake now and all you want is to get back to sleep and get back to that dream, the one that was so nice, so blissful. So you toss and turn and nothing feels right, no, nothing feels the same. For months you slept by pretending you had your arms wrapped around that special someone, and when you couldn't do that anymore because they weren't yours, you lost the ability to breathe deeply and fall easily into a soft slumber. Your own bed feels strange to you, the covers smother and the pillows provide no peace.
Now the only way you can catch a single z is to do what you did before, to embrace the illusion that you aren't allowed to have. You hug the pillow that's supposed to be them tight and you fall asleep, but it's restless because you feel so guilty and so afraid because the monster isn't under your bed and it's not in your closet. It's in your bed. It's you.
You're the worst kind of person. You can't feel happy for other people, not like this, not when them being so happy makes you so sad. You live in terror, terror, terror that someone will find out because if they do, well then you really will be alone.
So you sleep.
But you don't dream.
Was digging through documents on my computer the other day and I found this. A bit of venting from the December before last. Just history at this point, but reading it again, there was something I liked about the way it was written. Seems to rhyme a lot. Worth a scrap, at least. Maybe.
I've been too busy with school and trying to figure out post graduation plans to write anything else.