Kelsey Nicholls, Not Hemmingway

Twist and slide of alternate realities, distorting time and distance to a slew of fractured moments where the lights are too bright, harsh only against the stark thoughts of a shattered dream.

Maybe there’s forgiveness in hate, but I can’t even bring myself to feel that much. I’m better off trying to patch this hole that he’s left behind.

 

I’ve made mistakes, no one is exactly perfect but in laying low, I’ve shown my true colors to none. That saying “it’s better to have loved and lost” is a cliché, mass marketed solitude only for those too weak to face their deepest fears. I would rather not have crossed the line I didn’t know I had, but there is no rewind, no erasing of what was, what I still fail to accept.

 

Stop. That really is so much bullshit. There are days when I hate waking up by myself, but the alternate could be so much worse. I could be trapped in something I most certainly am not ready to face.

 

I gave someone the power to destroy me, and all I could do was destroy myself. The phoenix must burn to emerge. Something colder, infinitely harder than what was before.

 

Apparently all things with time will fade, but in fading, do you lose the lessons with it? Is the fire first kindled so hot that it glows with fever, infecting the tinder so that the flash point is only higher, such that it may never consent to all-consuming need?

 

A pocket of distortion, gaping for clarity; how are we expected to make sense when cast adrift by the tenuous connections we named love? Then again, we are the movers and shakers, the alterers of our own demise. Granting understanding to words so hastily scribbled, it requires a sense of wonder and belief in the impossible.

 

Pity I don’t believe.

 

To claim to be outside the influence of greater minds is a lie; we are elements of pattern recognition, flowing in collage. We represent the one constant: change. Even through chaos, there is an element of similarity. To claim individuality, you identify with a similar group of like minded individuals, seeking their own fates. So again, is it pack dynamics or are we so destined for singularity and Junebug-esque encounters?

 

Then you’ve got the people who abstractly disrespect and lust over a form that means less than the one thing they want. They shift to track your movement like misshapen spiders, weaving ineffectual webs. We are not meat to purchase at will, though it would seem that’s how a few make their way. Not me.

 

Testament to the dusty dream, the has-beens, memories and wishing my life away. I wouldn’t change a damn thing. Burn my letters.

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