It's the first Thursday since this blog began, meaning you're getting the first of my unfinished scribbles. Like all Thursdays scribbles, these are inherently fictional, though many have some basis in reality. "You write what you know" isn't a cliché for nothing. Enjoy my scribbles.
She stumbled into my life not really knowing what she was getting into, then chose to get out while she could still scavenge some bits of herself. We tore each other apart, there’s no sugarcoating the destructive whirlwind we put each other through. Now I’m just stumbling through the night, alone, keeping her out of arm’s reach so I don’t run back to that destructive embrace. I go on these walks sometimes, strangely dressed in the middle of the night. I used to smoke because it made me look cool, gave me some sense of identity. Now I’m addicted to slow creeping death, just like everyone else.
“Live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse” didn’t sound appealing until these painful months. I’ve never wanted to get out of everybody’s way as badly as I have lately. There’s only so much mooching you can do before you start making yourself sick. It doesn’t matter how happy they are to help, you can see the drain in their eyes: the stars getting that much duller. Windows to the soul; that’s what people call them. For someone who’s never believed in souls, I’ve always had a knack for reading them. Too bad I never act on what I read. I use it like a cheap parlour trick to impress girls, never to change anything. I do listen though, it’s the least you can do for the girl who decides she’s fine with lying next to you naked afterwards.
There’s something about listening that really gets them. Men, we want to be heard and seen, not listened to or looked into. Women crave listening. They know when you’re absorbing the crumbs of soul they’re shaking loose rather than just brushing them off the table. There’s something about those crumbs that gives me a high. They’re like stardust, aether, or coke for the suits. That’s what always really got me in trouble. Not their curves, their form or their face. It’s the stardust they blow my way. It has a way of getting under my skin, into my bloodstream. We don’t give them enough credit. For how tortured their souls are, they’re just as luminous and chase our darkness away, keeping it at bay. That was always the real drug, letting them fill that vessel. From my pimply years to my screwed up 20’s, I always make time for their stardust. Staring into something you don’t believe in can be an enlightening experience.
For all my ramblings of how great sharing their souls can be, I did very little of it myself. I remember eyes begging and voices cracking, dying to listen. But I don’t indulge, unless it’s to save my ass.
And that’s why she left. She was sick of me just saving my ass.
I can’t pinpoint when the addiction started, but it came into full swing in my high school years. It’s when the epiphany took place; when I realized women just want to feel special. When you’re a high schooler with no money, no car and no real talent, the only thing you can do is listen. Most high school boys are too worried about snaking their way into a girl’s pants to care much about what she’s saying; to me ripping the pants off always seemed secondary. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care about the glorious bounties within; I was a teenage boy after all, and hormones ran through me just as strongly as any other. But there was some great joy in listening to them, seeing glitter in their eye when they knew you understood what they were saying. The passages I remember most fondly aren’t the tongues down my throat but the words in my ear, sitting across from a girl on a gym floor and feeling the world recede around you. High schoolers are convinced they’re dealing with the most important, tragic moments in their lives, that a simple “no” can spell doom, and they’ll blab about it to their peers without end. In that sense I think I never really stopped being a high schooler; my lows always felt like rock bottom while the high felt like nothing more than a temporary bump. I remain convinced that everyone talks behind my back and they’re all just pretending to like me and no one will want to sit with me at lunch. I’m still just a dramatic princess.
Now my vain ramblings about my listening prowess don’t mean I don’t realize I could be a right prick. As much as I was in tune with the feelings and words of the women around me, I was entirely oblivious to the impacts my actions could have upon them. When I wasn’t raking in their stardust, I ended up just blinded by their light, flailing and stumbling towards the next best thing. Not content with being a leech, I set out for accidental carnage. It was always short-lived, I had an aversion with standing still for too long. Ended up being quite ironic.