Bitter

So you’re in love and she isn’t anymore, and you lie alone in bed, trying not to think. She’s the best thing you ever had. Even as the thought occurs to you, you know how cliché that sounds… but there it is. She is creative, intelligent, passionate, capable of deep feeling, and honest. She doesn’t want to hurt you, she just can’t love you anymore, and is being honest. But you can’t help being hurt. You feel like a dog that’s just had it’s leg torn off, and stands there, utterly bewildered, blinking stupidly at the stump. Not yet even remotely comprehending how, or why. In a state of shock.
Unfortunately, you are not a dog. If you were, you might think: fucking bitch… she smells so good… oh well. You would go on with your life without worrying. But you are cursed with the ability to think, being a big-brained ape with nothing better to do. So you think of the promise you made. You never actually said „I promise“, but the promise was there, in your heart, clear and sweet like the air after a thunderstorm. She knew that, she saw it in your eyes, she felt it in your hands. She heard it and read it in the beautiful words you unfolded before her in a calm stream of love and certainty. That’s why she waited so long. Longer than she actually could… she counted on you, and you failed her. Circumstances prevented you, you say to yourself, and it’s true enough, but nevertheless you wonder what you could have done, what desperate measures might have led to salvation in spite of it all. You were already on the verge of doing something insane when she pulled the ripcord. You felt in your bones that things were getting ticklish. Circumstances! The word threatens to split your head.
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It’s bitter. So damned bitter. You’d rather kill yourself than taste that taste; but it would be tantamount to cowardice not to face the facts. She’d pity you then, and hate you for betraying her belief that you are a good person, strong, a man worth loving… no matter whether she loves you anymore or not. That would be worse than anything you can think of, for even now you still want to please her. It is better, in that case, to drink some more wine. But even drink doesn’t help in the least, much to your chagrin. You drink more, and more, and even then… what’s the point in drinking, when it doesn’t stop the pain?
So, what recourse do you have? Face up to the horrid truth: you’ve lost her. The one that got away, like some damned fisherman’s tale.
She never did you wrong. If she had, you could at least indulge your mind in thoughts of morbid revenge, or in the belief that she isn’t good enough for you. Not even this avenue of emotional escape is open to you, and you begin to wonder if you can ever even stop loving her. You’d cry if you had any tears left. You contemplate the stump. Blinking. Stupid.
Listening to Don’t Bother Me from the Beatles.

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Hellstrøm’s Dream No. 562

I stood on the mountaintop, laughing at the fools below, and a little man came up the path and asked me, what was I doing? I told him, it’s none of your bee’s wax, upon which he tugged my sleeve insistently, and told me I had an arrow that belonged to him… What is this arrow you speak of, you fat little man, I asked. There are no arrows here, only snow, and hard cold stone, of beauty unsurpassed, with the exception only of the warm beauty of my bride. Ah, he said, the very arrow I speak of is lodged in this woman, your bride. I’ve run out of arrows, there simply aren’t enough to go ’round. I need it back! matterhorn-2893_1920

A terrible thought entered my mind: that if he got his arrow back I would lose my bride. My face went black with rage, and I struck the little man a blow, so hard that he stumbled, and fell from the mountaintop with a faint scream to the fools below. In that moment I knew that my bride was now after all lost to me, and that my days were cursed.
I descended among the fools, and I was as a fool, and I was no longer myself, and my bride saw me but did not know me, for I had killed the fat little man, and with him all love was let out of the world, with a vast, deep sigh. There were no more arrows, no more love. Nevermore. And I wept, fool that I was, and did not know why. I wept, and I woke up weeping.

The Power of Music

Music. I listen to it a whole damn lot. It takes me places I can’t get to alone. It transports me. It makes me laugh and cry, it makes me curse humanity and revel in love. It puts me in a state of absolute tension, it relaxes me to the point of sleep. It tells me tales I’ll never understand rationally, but I know I understand. It massages my soul, and it stirs my intellect. It’s so raw it hurts, and it goes down smooth, like the best malt whiskey. I don’t know of anything on this world that balls so many irreconcilable opposites together, often enough in a single song that just plain hits my nerve.