Monday, January 22, 2007

a failed social experiment.

he's depressed. you can tell just by looking at him. the way he holds his skinny shoulders, the way his fingers nonchalantly clutch his cigarette. he lies on his bed, collapsed like the roof of an old cottage, empty, lonely and alone. he sleeps as headphones fill his head with interpol - further bolstering his mood - to avoid any sounds of her; she and her new lovers that sneak through our hallway in the middle of the night. he sits, every night, in his room; torturing himself as she chats away in the corner, uncaring of the constant wounds she inflicts with her mindless prattle, her mere presence ripping open flesh that he has repeatedly healed. he thinks that scars are harder than soft, unbroken skin - he is wrong.

she calls them, one by one, seeking ratification for her actions. hold me, she says. she has no right to demand intimacy from these meaningless transients she flaunts in our faces. she admits to me her attention-seeking intentions, and dismisses casually the relationships she has made that have brought her to this point. we haven't driven her to this course of action. this persona she creates is completely her own invention. i don't like her any more. i'm not sure i ever did.

i have spent the last few months in dread. my self-preserving treaty is absence. i debate in my head whether i could have done anything to change the situation - to have prevented her heart from breaking; to have prevented her from in turn breaking his heart. i could not stop the catalyst - actions defy reason where lust is concerned (or love, as he believes this painful crystallisation of his heart to be). i could not stop it, and i cannot stop his downward spiral now.
and so i run.

i feel like a liar, living in my perfect bubble whilst he suffers, in his own orb of masochistic heartbreak. guilty- my first thought was to leave them all behind and save my own sanity - it has taken weeks to be let back inside his head. and still she was there. like a leech - she self-includes without invitation, encroaching on our lives like a cancer that can be repressed, although doing so makes you feel ill. i live with someone i detest, on such a base level, and yet i can't cut her out of my life because the two of them are so intrinsically linked, still, after all of this, that to excise her is to excise a part of him that makes him whole.

to have him whole, but broken, or to lose him; scarred, but healed.

i suggested to him last night that he run with me, soon; to come with me across the country; to write a new chapter. without her. i've never envisaged him moving out of that house. its like another limb. with a carcinogenic housematethat perhaps would be less lethal if amputated.
amputation hurts. but a slow painful death?

trust me. i'm going to be a doctor.

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