Sides of You

        I know that there are many sides to every person, but this is going a little too far. These stories don't add up and I showed up late enough to the party that no evidence remains. This is he-said she-said and I can't know who to believe, or if somehow I can believe you both. He says you take and abuse trust, even though you say it was you who was taken and abused.
        Yours was a matter of trust too, the people closest to you became monsters of the basest kind. They made you feel worth something and gave you your fix in more ways than one. But they took the trust they earned, murdered it, and left you bleeding in a society that did not care about Kitty on the street crying bloody murder. So why would it care about one more girl crying rape?
        So with your trust so brutally defiled, how could you even conceive of abusing the trust of another? How could you pull the knife from your back and swing it's blade so wantonly? And if you did swing so wildly around it'd be easy to pass of the inevitable cuts on yourself as the assault of another. I do not want to believe you are so vile, but maybe that's just a side of you long hidden.
        But an uncaring society might view those cuts others forced on you as your chosen scarlet letter. And they throw away damaged goods to prevent the bad apple from spoiling their bunch, and blame it for its bruises. I can't know who to believe, but either way you are different from how you previously seemed. You have hidden sides of yourself to protect you, be it from judgement or from pity. The latter I can respect, the former suggest maybe I'm just another victim that you can later paint as a perpetrator.
        So now I have to take a step back in case this side of you will harm me. And maybe in case there are still more sides of you hidden in the shadows. Waiting to push me further away than your radio silence ever could.

Lies and Realities

I loved you from the moment I met you
That's a lie. I hated you when I met you. I hated talking to you, I hated listening to you complain, I hated how you'd always be upset about the same damn thing. I thought you were this obnoxious little annoyance. Hell, I thought you were just pretending to be hurting for the attention. But I stuck around because I felt like I had to.

I have all the confidence in the world in you.
That's a lie too. I'm scared near constantly that you're right about yourself. That one day you'll end up dead in a gutter having overdosed on some drug or another. I'm scared that you won't make it. Hell, sometimes I'm scared that I won't make it without you if you don't. But I stick around because I feel like you need that confidence.

We fit together like pieces of a puzzle.
That's another lie. Yeah we have a lot in common but we don't "fit together" in some special way beyond the fact that we usually enjoy each other's company. Hell we don't even tolerate each other half the time. We argue and fight damn near constantly. But I'm sticking around because I feel like the good times are worth it.

You're the most beautiful person I've ever laid eyes on.

That's just one more lie.



...I think
See that's the problem with making up my own version of the truth. With writing a revisionist history. With putting up a facade to hide what I really believe. With pretending the arguments and hateful words don't matter in the end.
Truth and lies blend together into a false reality I no longer understand, but I need to survive. A reality I need so I can survive, but one that is coming apart at the seams as I'm caught in the web of lies I wove.
But that wasn't one more lie. You are the most beautiful person. So I stuck around. So I stick around. So I'm sticking around.
Because the most beautiful piece of my false reality is true.

You.

Prometheus or "My Inner Light"

        My old friend, I thank you for your letter, but  I write speeches for many to hear and take my views from, not correspondence for but one person to view me as they wish to. So I respond to you with this one and hope you will listen to what I say rather than proselytize at me about what I willfully abandoned.
        You are right about me, I do believe that words are for expressing something older than themselves, something dark and primal. My use of words to express these ancient things called emotions is art, not an expression of any personal struggle and certainly not a god damn "cry for help." And this art is not a voice "for the dark," it is my voice representing the dark. Helping others understand and deal with the darkness that is part of life now and helping them more than any prophet of things to come ever could.
        And I do believe in a "let there be light," but not the one of your precious YHWH. Those words were spoken in myth by the poster child of human ingenuity, Prometheus of Greek myth. Light was not a gift from a benevolent creator, it was stolen from a harsh and uncaring universe. We created our own light long ago when we first became bright enough to rub two sticks together. We let there be light and saw that it was good, and more importantly that it was ours.
        And so I won't join your crusade for a light I no longer believe in. I respect your beliefs, as everyone needs something to lean on, but I do not want or need your particular crutch. I did at one point but now I have a new and better thing to believe in but that is myself and my own inner light. I, like everyone else on this planet, am my own god and the master of my own fate. So I have to believe that I have the forethought and ingenuity of Prometheus to carry me through, and refuse to rely on a cosmic safety net.
        Frankly, I am angry that you act as if you know me better than I know myself, that you view my life as unsatisfactory because I am not the same as you, and that you presume I need help because my art does not reflect your ideals. Yes, life is a pile of shit. It's painful, it's dark, and it's uncaring about you or me or anyone else. But god damn it I love it anyway, and I ain't quite done with it yet.
Soli Ego Gloria,
-VNV

_________________________________________________________________________________

I suppose Jesus is a Fuckboy by my friend Will could be considered related reading to this. I'm not in the habit of promoting others but check him out, his writing's way better than mine.

A Light in the Darkness

There is a reason we call the addictions and neuroses and insecurities that constantly haunt us our "demons." Though more a concept than a being, the Devil is very real. He even has a name: Lucifer, Bringer of Light. When you look the Devil in the face, as we are often forced to, he casts light into the darkness around you. And make no mistake, a light in the darkness is only a blessing when its director has your best interest in mind.

1. Nobody is afraid of the dark, they are afraid of the uncertainties which it conceals. Carefully selected lights illuminate those parts of that amalgam which we truly fear. Every worst case scenario that flashes through our minds to prevent action has been carefully staged to appear in full light.
2. The light at the end of the tunnel is the universal euphemism for hope in times of despair. Hope, however, is not always a good thing. Sometimes that light of how is an oncoming train ready to run us down. And so false hope is the lights left on just too long at the tragic end of the first act. 
3. Walking in the dead of night with only a flashlight to guide us, our vision is severely constricted. Every snap of a twig or rustle of bramble outside that small circle of clarity inspires worry and apprehension. And so the anxiety that keeps us ever on our toes is the lone spotlight focused center stage, making the surroundings seem so much darker

Knowing the uselessness of darkness, the Devil uses light to bring humanity to its knees. And while we lay there wretched and broken, one last spotlight shines onto the scene. In full light the stage is set for the final blaze of glory  

a knife

a gun

a rope

a balcony

a lake

a bottle

a syringe

And amidst this whole charade we never realized who was holding the flashlight, standing in the background, pushing us ever closer to the precipice, and chuckling as we stumbled over the edge. 

The Devil is not real 

But we are

The Last Thing I Won't Say to You

I asked if it was goodbye. You weren't sure, but if so I guess this is yours. Or at least it's how I feel about yours.
I think I get why now but I'm still torn apart by it because of how I felt about you. I know I told you a thousand times, but I really cared about you. There's another feeling there too, but Doctor Who put it better than I ever could dream to: "I wasn't very good at it, but I did love you." And I think "did" might finally be the right word for it now. I honestly hope so at this point. It's funny, but I knew it would end this way. I knew since before February 15th. The day after Valentine's Day.
The day I started this whole mess.
I was talking about the time before when we watched that movie that's one of your favorites now. I justified why I didn't say anything about how I felt then with this: "if this starts it doesn't end without it ending very badly for one of us." It turns out I was more right than I thought. Because at least for me this is the last way I wanted things to end. I hope you didn't want this either. I hope you cared about me like you said you did, even if it wasn't the way I wanted. But after two whole days of thinking I've decided that maybe this is the way things should be. I listened to "Give Up" on repeat, and it felt like every word described what went down. And I was going to give you the end of Nothing Better but I think this fits more:

"I was the one worth leaving"

I asked if it was goodbye. But regardless of whether or not that was yours, I guess this is mine.
Goodbye to my storyteller, goodbye to my listener. Goodbye to my my ward, goodbye to my protector. Goodbye to my mirror, goodbye to my opposite. Goodbye to my ally, goodbye to my opponent.
Goodbye to my love.
And goodbye to my muse.

I'll never forget you.

Salt and Iron

I opened the door.
I should have known you would be there. It was a Monday morning in January. The day after your birthday. I didn't want to bother you but I had to eventually.
I sat down next to you.
I looked at you while you just lay there. But I couldn't see you for long. Your image became blurry. I shut my eyes as drop by drop salt met iron.
I breathed a heavy sigh.
I remembered how you talked almost every day about being there. I only ever half believed you. You scared me sometimes. I didn't think I really had to be afraid.
I brushed your hair out of your eyes.
I used to call you kiddo all the time. It was our cute little term of endearment for each other. You really were just a kid. Of all people a kid belongs there the least.
I bent over and gently kissed your forehead.
I had to convince you of a lot of things. That you were beautiful, that I loved you. You never really believed me. You believed you didn't deserve any of this.
I embrace you for the la-



Wait.



In your hand.
I know immediately what it is. The pen with which you wrote your final message to me. I tear it from your fingers and throw it as far from us as I possibly can. I burn with rage. Rage at you for doing this. Rage at me for letting it happen. Rage at love for not being enough. Rage at the world for hurting you this way. Rage at that pen for making this even a possibility. I rage rage rage rage rage against the dying of the light.

The dying of your light. Your already dead light. Your light that had been dead for so long but I didn't notice until now. Or I did and couldn't admit it. 

I have beaten the room until I am senseless. My fists cannot unclench, iron drips from my knuckles. My eyes cannot open, salt burns down my face. There is no more rage, only your dead light and mine.
I go and pick up your pen from the corner of the room
I want to go with you, to chase after you. I want to lie beside you and draw the same lines on my skin you did. I settle for a little less. Perpendicular lines that last forever, to remind me of what I could never forget anyway. 


My life joins with yours one final time, then I open the drain, and watch the last of you flow away from me.

Life (This I Believe)

       This. This is worthless. This is pointless. This is useless. This is terrifying. This is terrible. This is complete and utter bullshit. This is never ever ever ever going to change. This I believe.

      There's more truisms about it than you can say in it. Life's not fair, shit happens, life's what you make it, everything happens for a reason, c'est la vie, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. We have so many sayings about how life is so difficult to deal with but as soon as someone decides they're done with it we tell them the exact opposite just so they won't quit. Why the hell do we believe it matters to us?     Why the hell do we believe we have any say whatsoever in anyone's lives but our own. This I believe, everyone's right to live entails a right to die.

      That's what makes it so terrible. But it's a choice, like anything else. It's all about choices, every moment of every day of every life is a choice. The choice to keep living, or die trying. The choice to say something or stay silent. The choice to care about others or to selfishly look out only for yourself. The choice to stand up take ownership and live the life no one else can or to be passive and let your life just waste itself. This I believe, life is a series of choices and every single one is important. And because of that people overthink everything, so intent on making the "right choice." But here's the thing, no one makes the right choices; because this I believe, there are no right choices.

      That's what makes it so terrifying. No do overs, no mulligans, no repeats, no retries. One and done. Everything you do changes your life permanently. Even if people don't remember what you did, what you said, who you stood by. They'll remember how it made them feel. Loved, appreciated, accepted. Or despised, disdained, discarded. They'll remember, but life will not. This I believe, nothing lasts forever. In fact, nothing lasts at all.

      That's what makes it so useless, pointless, worthless. Everything-less. Meaningless. Or is it? So what if nothing lasts? So what if there are no right choices? So what if people can just quit? So what if life exists? It does, people don't, choices are made anyway, and memories last, at least to us. People may not matter to life, but life matters to people. Because if it doesn't what does? This I believe. This is all we've got. This is something that matters.