Back in the same boat again, or at least the same currents; this was not a floating feeling, but a sinking one.
You join me towards the back end of my tether.
The noise has died down, the circus has departed, the crowds have dispersed, the well wishers long since moved on... and here I sit. Alone. On my bed. Having just fled the arms of another man.
I'm not entirely sure what is happening to me. I've been single over a month now officially, and I feel like a ruined man. No matter how hard I try I cannot dilute this feeling with infatuation or male attention. Tonight is not the first time I've gotten up and walked out of someone's house because I just couldn't follow through with the high of distraction I felt that I needed.
He was beautiful. Truly. But he wasn't you. And every smile, every accidental touch, every moment that I spent in another mans presence cut me like a razor blade; sounded like a chainsaw in my ear.
Yet something stops me from being alone.
The silence. The quiet. The stillness. It's excruciating. The thoughts that run rampant through my mind grab me by the throat and pull me under, till no matter how much I struggle I'm enveloped in their fullness. I claw at my throat, I thrash and scream but no sound comes out. And the louder I shout, the harder it pulls at me and the deeper I fall into the dark, dense depth of my hurt until I'm suffocating under the weight of this intangible beast that seems to cackle and hiss as it pulls me to it's belly.
I am undone. And exhausted.
I have lost count of the uneven flecks of paint on my ceiling and walls. I can no longer sort my socks into colour coded lines; my cupboards sparkle with the frenzy of a man desperate to be distracted. Even in the presence of friends I feel like Pinocchio. Wooden; a boy who yearns for the reality of living yet is still pulled and strangled by the strings he spent years trying to cut.
Untethered, they try to wrap themselves around my neck set on choking the life out of me, in a desperate attempt at keeping me bound to my past.
At least my nose ain't growing. There's a kind of solace in the fact that I can say it and own it. The mess in my head and heart spills out onto the sidewalk for all to see. And I am done trying to clear it up.
There is something quite final about a man who realises he's drowning. And yet, amidst the waves there's a peace at knowing it's happening. At least a drowning man who knows he's drowning has the awareness to reach for the life boat.
So here I shall continue to sink, until I've offloaded the weight that pulls me down to the dark.
The silence. The quiet. The stillness.