Work Text:
September, 1972 1973
To my fellow lost,
I was waiting for a driver to take me home and thought of you. Thought about all the lives I've lived with and without you by my side. The faces of all the people I've met blend together, sometimes I think I unfocus my gaze on purpose, try not to notice any particulars because it will be easier when they disappear in the blink of an eye.
Sometimes I think I can't remember your face either, the exact wave of your hair or the shine of your eyes. I don't think I'll ever forget the feeling of losing you, but sometimes I can't listen to your voice in my head, strange how that works. Someone can be alive only to haunt those who live, but dead in how we forget them.
We damned are constantly changing but cursed to always stay the same on some level. Blessed with infinite time but limited to finite wisdom that comes with perspective. I care for the people I've met along the way, however sometimes I imagine how just laying down and stopping forever must feel, not in one of our cycles of little deaths but truly forever. Stop existing as Me the way You did, no reoccurring thoughts stretched across decades, no weights to drag on my shoulders where I used to hold you, just putting it all down, a final point to my story. With me buried I guess a little more of you would die too, one less person to try and remember you, one more page ripped out in the book of our lives.
So I read. I walk. I make noise like humans do, I occupy my time. I've followed many around in an effort to stay feeling. I'm still so young compared to the rest of us, yet sometimes I swear that I'm physically aging, that the dust has finally penetrated my bones and it's time to stop being active. Then I go out and get another rush that makes this life make sense for another hour.
Has it always felt this way? Did I feel like someone holding onto a lifeboat purely on instinct rather than with the will to survive when we were still together? Was this the way I came across to you? I guess the will to survive alone isn't much to keep me active now, is it? I've immersed myself in the great sea and came back to find myself in a swimming pool. There are no more reasons to be afraid, except the fear of our own, which I lack. I look at his face at dawn and feel contempt. It's convenient to have someone beside me, another one that won't fade, but I fear we can't change that much and I've come to know all of his magician tricks.
Would you find me pathetic? If I wasn't always like this, would you be disappointed? I feel myself moving but I haven't danced in a while, would you dance if you were here? Were you always so much stronger than me or have I somehow smoothed you out in my head, convinced myself you had no cracks because I needed something to hold me together?
I don't know why I'm always asking questions now, I wasn't always curious, I think. Wasn't a lot of things I should have been, but that's all in the past. I have no more duties to fulfill, no more promises to break or loved ones to disappoint with my cowardice.
I don't know when I started to hate the noise so much. The tick of the clock, the hum of modern appliances, the lonely beat of my heart. It's better to talk, I'd even prefer yelling, yet it seems I'm too much of a bore these days, I'm sorry. I'm self aware enough to know why no one has ever described me as a light, I suffocate myself in darkness that is inherent to who I am. We change, though we don't change enough. I'm alone, even when I'm not.
I still see things that make me emotional, don't get me wrong, I might gasp at a wonderful sight as would any mortal, although I fear I can't produce anything meaningful anymore. I've been told there used to be a law prohibiting us from engaging in art, do you think there was a reason for it all? Was it protecting us from our own mediocrity? Warning us against hearing our voices more than the necessary so we might last a little longer before getting tired of ourselves? I think one of you might have known this one. I am the egoist of us, I've never searched for answers for others, and so now no one cares to say much to me.
It's comforting to imagine, dream, even to lie, to sit with a golden pillow and rub my face on it like a cat seeking comfort from Its owner, only I don't feel that creative, can only imagine about myself, dream about us, lie about the past. Ours is the only story I want to tell. What happens to the codependent when the one they center themselves around leaves? Do they fall? Am I falling now, still? It's high time I've hit the ground if that is so, except time has stopped mattering long ago.
I need to get out there, I've also heard that it's unhealthy to dwell. That is funny, that someone cares enough about the monster's health, that I have something else more than dwelling to do, that anyone would have the power to stop me if dwelling was all I've ever wanted nowadays. That's besides the point, I should go out. It's not like you'll leave, the thoughts will never leave, but they can go back to being noise for a night. Maybe I'll even go with him, that could be practical. I try not to think about what the night has in store for me, however it's all becoming routine. Of this perhaps you'd be proud, things that were once too difficult reduced to a pesky though before the high. Too late to get my congratulations. Don't wait for me, I'll be back to you. Even if I can't go home.
Yours, with love
LDPDL