gravity and PAint

Today I learnt that we’re not as fragile as we think we are. I learnt that the reason we take big leaps instead of baby steps is to eliminate the choice of turning back, no matter how much we can see the pain coming. I learnt that behind every asshole there’s a little boy begging for help.

It’s hurting again. It’s making sense again. And the blood started flowing again, time is moving again, or we’re moving against it. But movement means feeling. Your words, one after the other, stir up the images in my mind and suddenly I’m high, I’m floating, I’m yearning to understand, I’m nauseous, writhing on my chair, anxious to turn myself inside out, and feel myself disintegrate and slowly be ripped apart by your own force.

Because every tear has turned into disgust and the idea of not giving up is now nothing but a stupid childish fantasy of when I used to remain in one piece. There used to be cracks, small fractions of understanding. There used to be a person who could hold people in place in a conversation because of her belief in a happy ending seen through real eyes. There used to be a person who could see the glow at the end. You broke her.