Defiant Daisy #1
The first shot was because I couldn’t sleep. She broke my heart, and I just couldn’t sit in the empty apartment listening to the lonely cry of a train whistle at night anymore. So, I came here, where we met. I don’t know why. I just sort of ended up here without even thinking about where I was going.
The truth is that she never loved me. All the kisses, all the cuddling, all the sweet notes and love songs – they weren’t for me. They were for her. She kissed me so that she would feel like romance was real instead of annoyingly abstract. She held me so that she wouldn’t be alone. She wrote and sang to drown out the deafening silence and emptiness that sat between us.
The truth is that I never loved her, either. I loved love. I do that, you know – I fall in love with abstract concepts and pin them to people so that they’re real. Her blue eyes seemed so profoundly deep and sad that I just couldn’t look away. I loved the way her hair fell into her face, even though she hated it. I loved her chubby cheeks because they gave her this childlike innocence and naive trust that I was so desperately searching for. She was... she was what made me whole.
We fell in love with love, but as we fell, we got farther and farther apart from each other.
The next shot was for our song. Of all the songs on that fucking jukebox, some jerk had to pick ours, and he had to do it when my glass was empty and my heart was worse. I can still remember the first time we heard it. It was on the way to the beach. It was midnight, and it was raining, but she just had to see the ocean because she hadn’t seen it yet and just couldn’t stand it any longer. So, we hopped in my car and drove a few hours to the coast. Everyone else in the car fell asleep, and, as we drove through the sleepy abandoned towns along the coast, it began to play. The quiet acoustic chords drifted through the night, and I looked over, and the moonlight hit her hair just so...
The next shot was for forgetting, because, God help me, I can’t. As much as she says it was a mistake, as much as I know she never loved me, I just can’t get us out of my head. When I go to sleep, the bed is huge, and when I wake up, it’s silent. The empty spot in my bathroom cupboard where her toothbrush used to be stares judging me each morning. Without her coffee brewing in the morning, I’m really aware of how smelly and dilapidated my building really is. I have nothing to say goodbye to in the morning and nothing to greet when I come home at night.
The next shot was for remembering. Things are already fading from my memory. My pillow doesn’t smell like her anymore. I don’t expect a kiss when I walk into the apartment at the end of the day, and I think of her less and less each day, but she’s still not gone. I still find things of hers – pictures, songs, books, notes, recipes – things that could never describe her but will always be hers. It’s like a constant haze of sentiment without any discernible traits. I can’t remember, but I can’t forget, and I’m empty.
With each shot, I thought it would get better because I wanted nothing more than to stop thinking. All I’ve done for days and days is think, and that’s the last thing I want to do now. But it won’t stop. All the liquor has done is make it to where I can’t run. My thoughts are more and more vivid and less and less under my control, and I’m alone. The haze is overpowering me, and I’m drowning in my grief. She’s alone, and I’m alone, and the abstract that I’ve been pursuing for two and a half years is ... gone. My daydreams are gone. My ambitions are empty.
Bah, you don’t care. You’re looking around for an escape route – someone you can pretend to be meeting, a woman you can feign interest in, a place that you have to be. You’re cursing the fact that you sat on that stool even though it was the only empty one in the bar. Maybe you’re in love, and it’s real, and you think this never happens. Maybe you’ve never been in love, and you don’t understand. But, see it’s not just about love – it’s about the fact that there’s nothing at the bottom of that shot glass and there’s nothing waiting at home and there’s nothing tomorrow and nothing next week. It’s that I’m desperate enough in my life for some sort of a connection to pour my soul out to some stranger unfortunate enough to sit next to me in a bar, and that you’re bored enough in yours to listen to me. The boredom, the desperation, the empty glasses, and the train whistle all come together to make me feel more alone than I’ve ever felt.
The next shot is for isolation, because it’s all I’ve got.
The truth is that she never loved me. All the kisses, all the cuddling, all the sweet notes and love songs – they weren’t for me. They were for her. She kissed me so that she would feel like romance was real instead of annoyingly abstract. She held me so that she wouldn’t be alone. She wrote and sang to drown out the deafening silence and emptiness that sat between us.
The truth is that I never loved her, either. I loved love. I do that, you know – I fall in love with abstract concepts and pin them to people so that they’re real. Her blue eyes seemed so profoundly deep and sad that I just couldn’t look away. I loved the way her hair fell into her face, even though she hated it. I loved her chubby cheeks because they gave her this childlike innocence and naive trust that I was so desperately searching for. She was... she was what made me whole.
We fell in love with love, but as we fell, we got farther and farther apart from each other.
The next shot was for our song. Of all the songs on that fucking jukebox, some jerk had to pick ours, and he had to do it when my glass was empty and my heart was worse. I can still remember the first time we heard it. It was on the way to the beach. It was midnight, and it was raining, but she just had to see the ocean because she hadn’t seen it yet and just couldn’t stand it any longer. So, we hopped in my car and drove a few hours to the coast. Everyone else in the car fell asleep, and, as we drove through the sleepy abandoned towns along the coast, it began to play. The quiet acoustic chords drifted through the night, and I looked over, and the moonlight hit her hair just so...
The next shot was for forgetting, because, God help me, I can’t. As much as she says it was a mistake, as much as I know she never loved me, I just can’t get us out of my head. When I go to sleep, the bed is huge, and when I wake up, it’s silent. The empty spot in my bathroom cupboard where her toothbrush used to be stares judging me each morning. Without her coffee brewing in the morning, I’m really aware of how smelly and dilapidated my building really is. I have nothing to say goodbye to in the morning and nothing to greet when I come home at night.
The next shot was for remembering. Things are already fading from my memory. My pillow doesn’t smell like her anymore. I don’t expect a kiss when I walk into the apartment at the end of the day, and I think of her less and less each day, but she’s still not gone. I still find things of hers – pictures, songs, books, notes, recipes – things that could never describe her but will always be hers. It’s like a constant haze of sentiment without any discernible traits. I can’t remember, but I can’t forget, and I’m empty.
With each shot, I thought it would get better because I wanted nothing more than to stop thinking. All I’ve done for days and days is think, and that’s the last thing I want to do now. But it won’t stop. All the liquor has done is make it to where I can’t run. My thoughts are more and more vivid and less and less under my control, and I’m alone. The haze is overpowering me, and I’m drowning in my grief. She’s alone, and I’m alone, and the abstract that I’ve been pursuing for two and a half years is ... gone. My daydreams are gone. My ambitions are empty.
Bah, you don’t care. You’re looking around for an escape route – someone you can pretend to be meeting, a woman you can feign interest in, a place that you have to be. You’re cursing the fact that you sat on that stool even though it was the only empty one in the bar. Maybe you’re in love, and it’s real, and you think this never happens. Maybe you’ve never been in love, and you don’t understand. But, see it’s not just about love – it’s about the fact that there’s nothing at the bottom of that shot glass and there’s nothing waiting at home and there’s nothing tomorrow and nothing next week. It’s that I’m desperate enough in my life for some sort of a connection to pour my soul out to some stranger unfortunate enough to sit next to me in a bar, and that you’re bored enough in yours to listen to me. The boredom, the desperation, the empty glasses, and the train whistle all come together to make me feel more alone than I’ve ever felt.
The next shot is for isolation, because it’s all I’ve got.
posted by defiant daisy at 10:02 PM
1 Comments:
i love this. it's incredible.
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