Qu'est-ce qui se passe avec tout ce qui passe ?

Qu’est-ce qui se passe aux photos ? Aux rondeaux qu’on a écrits pour toi ? Aux chansons que t’as crevées en moi ? Qu’est-ce que se passe avec tous les grimaces, avec tous les désires pas encore achevés ? A tous les espoirs mutilés ? Est-ce qu’il faut oublier ou ignorer tous les images qu’on a jamais vues ensemble ? Tous les bons vins qu’on a bus ensemble ? Dès la première goutte. Oublier, ça coûte. Qu’est-ce qui se passe à tout ce qu’on a touché ensemble ? Est-ce qu’il faut effacer toutes les photos qu’on a faites ensemble ? Mais ça ne suffira pas. Toutes les photos que t’as prises de moi, toutes les photos que j’ai prises de toi, toutes les photos qu’on a prises dans des endroits où on s’est promené ensemble. Mais ça ne suffira pas. Toutes les photos que j’ai prises sans toi, mais en pensant à toi. Mais ça ne suffira pas. Toutes les photos prises avant toi, avant de savoir que tu existais. Même ça ne suffira pas. TOUTES LES PHOTOS ! Découper toutes les photos de ma vie, fermer toutes les rues, taire toutes les chansons, oublier tous les mots, brûler les vêtements, démonter les cadeaux, cracher aux gens qui te connaissent, rien dire, rien faire, rien sentir. Et tout ce que j’écris, n’est pas pour toi. Je ne veux plus que tu lises mes mots. J’espère qu’ELLE ne lira jamais mes mots. J’espère qu’ELLE ne saura jamais de mon existence. Mais, maintenant, il faut que je fasse mes bagages et je regarde tous ces objets autour desquels j’ai bâti mon monde et je dois t’en arracher et je ne sais pas comment. Ton être a tout envahi, tout sent à toi et tout semble, soudainement, étranger et malin. Il faut tout laver, tout cautériser. Il me faut des boîtes, des sacs en plastique et de la patience. Un de ces jours, je partirai.

Horribly selective love

De la Sketchbook Project 2011

I am tired and sick and not in the mood of appearing to be ok anymore. I simply wish to be left alone for a while, let me manage. It won`t kill me. hasn`t hurt me before. I am too tired to even try to seem ok so I do not worry you. There is a lot of anger in my heart, more than I`ve ever felt, maybe, but I am too tired to even try to blame it on people. Any energy I have left , I am trying to keep people from hurting eachother over me. I am tired and sick and sick and tired of people caring for me. When someone starts caring for you, they burden you with this huge responsibility of having to care back, or at least of appreciating it, or, most annoying of all, of never being able to ignore them again. But mostly, people expect you to care back. There is no such thing of carefree care. They expect you to care that they care, to change your life and habits around it. I know this is true, I have done it myself. Stood there like an idiot, not really grasping what you were saying. How could you not love anymore if I still loved you? How could you say you had stopped caring, when I still cared? Stood there like a fool, without understanding how long it must have taken you to decide to relieve youself of the burden of constantly trying to care back when you didn`t.
Because love, or whatever you choose to call the bloody thing, is horribly selective. It will constantly refuse to choose rationally, to consider odds, to take precautions. It will usually throw you all in, naked, helpless, defenseless, at the mercy of whoever you encounter. And you stand there like an idiot, like you and I both did, not really understanding why the hell they won`t love you back, since you love them and that is all that should matter.
People are horribly complicated. I am tired and sick and sick and tired of having to say I am ok. Everyone keeps asking me the same thing, all over again: ARE YOU OK?
Hell no ! I am not OK. I probably feel like crap. Is that what they want to hear? I am not OK. Will it kill me? No. Will it hurt for a long time? Probably. Will I get over it? In time. Given enough time, we allow ourselves to forget the most horrible things, if only for a few days at a time. That is how we get over. There is no actual healing. Every word you ever said still hurts. It`s like everything you ever touched hurts. It makes me sick just to think of it. Physically sick, it makes me throw up, it makes me scratch my skin off. you itch, you burn. I want to bleed you out of me.
But that is not what friends want to hear when they ask me if I am Ok. That scares people. Write it down and it`s literature, it`s not scary anymore. It makes people feel better if they read about it rather than see it happening.
So the next time someone asks me if I am ok, I will probably say that I am fine, of course, that it is almost over and I will be perfect in the morning.