I Come Apart

I think music works better than words for this one. I'm not even sure how I'm going to describe it in a way that provokes emotion because everything I feel is flat. It's a lack thereof type thing. I'm trying to associate it with symbols and colors more telling than your sheets and our clothes thrown around the floor. I haven't stopped feeling (I'm still writing about him, always writing about him, like he's stuck in my bones) but I don't understand it anymore. I don't try to understand, only try to expel whatever I can through writing or crying or kissing other people.

If I could use music I'd probably use the chorus of that rap song that just goes, "I come apart" and that's the only part I can remember. I'd use that, playing on repeat on my bluetooth speaker in my car, windows down, driving back home when it's dark. I'd keep the interruptions of my GPS telling me where to turn and the quieter-than-normal cicadas, still screaming their echoes into the early autumn. No one would feel the same thing. And I would be right on the verge on something but unable to touch it; just like I always am now.

I might've fucked up my memories more than is helpful. I was chasing closure, or maybe still chasing that same thing I always saw in him, but I fucked up. I'm always checking a couple steps behind me, genuinely wondering whether I've repressed any vital information. I've never had such a hard time differentiating dreams from reality.
         A couple days ago I had the first dream I can remember where I was positive I wasn't asleep--had really considered it and decided against it. And it was a good dream, and when I woke up it took me a little while to come to terms that all of it was made up--and that all that longing was my own.

I'm on depression meds and I feel like that's too blunt to put in anything I write. At first they gave me insomnia and I didn't want to eat, but now I feel just fine and I think they're working. The volume is turned down on everything. I can't cry now, most of the time, even when I feel like it. I'm writing this in my economics class, and I'm thinking about the business cycle. There are these things called stabilizing policies that are intended to prevent a second great depression. Rather than having high crests and troughs, the economy bumps along gently, always around the same level, never too excitable. It's the same thing, basically. And if America trusts this system I really have no right to complain that I don't feel like myself anymore.

What happened was I went to his house. We called first, then went to a restaurant, but we ended up in his bedroom. And we talked, seriously, about the shit time we both without each other. We both apologised while still blaming the other, and then we fucked. He drove me home afterward. And each of us continued on like it was normal; like we hadn't ruined each just one more time.

I wasn't thinking about him in my car, listening to "I come apart" and whatever the rest of the song was saying. I wasn't thinking about him, but I wasn't blank. Something was stirring, and it reminded me of someone even before him. Right to the core of me, I could feel this thing coming on, but not enough to catch or hold it, or even to get one good picture. And I come back now and fill in the cracks with his face because that at least makes sense.