Breaking Up

Heartbreak is a natural part of the adult progression. Whether it's in love or generally in life, you'll experience humbling moments. Many of these moments will be easy to get over, but others, like a breakup, can last for the rest of your days.

Here is a piece about having to let go of love. About heartbreak. About getting to know yourself.

 

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I go through certain periods of psychosis in which the voices make my choices.

I write.

I write.

I write in circles. I blind myself to reality and formulate strange incoherent, inconsistent, persistent, and dissonant insistent… thoughts.

I thought.

I thought I was something I’m not. I rot inside because my façade is all I’ve got.

I’m arrogant…

I’m bought.

I’ve got no image. Through my imagined magic I manage majesty. Anxiously, I go on. Apathy naturally pushes me gracelessly to move forward sluggishly.

I own nothing. A walking lie.

I try and try, but there isn’t a real me. There isn’t someone there to see. So I write.

I write.

I write. Understand, I don’t know why. I don’t understand. All I know is to try.

I’ve become obsessed.

So I break my old patterns.

Nothing matters.

My index finger slides down the spine. I open up. I go inside…

Honestly didn’t even mean to say “I” so many times. Just realized this was happening.

Let’s talk about you.

You.

You.

You.

Don’t worry, fully aware of what’s going on now.

Ironically, I sought to flee from honesty, but that wasn’t me, so honestly your modesty is the only solidity in my reality.

To be, or not to be?

You said, “Lascivious”. It was true. No denial on my behalf.

You saw me.

You knew it was true. Had to have answers, too. Bilious in your attempts, but oblivious to my fastidious hideous regrets, I meticulously reflect.

You saw me.

You saw the open page,

You saw the writing,

You saw. Younger and plastic, energetic, dark, sleek, and has more than one purpose. More than one use. I use. I’ve used and I’ll continue to use.

You are still in the picture. I’ll always love you, the pages, the spines, and the tiny little lines… But a pen can run out of ink!

Your pages are limited. THINK, in the blink of an eye I sink then I die.

I don’t try,

I don’t try.

I.

It’s always been about me.

It’s always been about how I’ll win.

I.

I.

I have a phone just so that I have somewhere else to look when I’m with you because you lack all the information necessary for me to want to talk to you.

I get home and I’m instantly entertained, amazed, and its sustained so I praise how ingrained in my brain it maintains.

I can’t help but enjoy the energy. My laptop is special.

It means everything to me.

I have ten of you in a box and a million others scattered around. But you are all limited. You’ll always be limited.

I bought this laptop for work, and I never thought I’d end up loving being with just one of anything.

I’m adjusted to my notebooks, but I’ve adjusted to my laptop.

I’ll always have a reason to read what I’ve written. That’ll always mean something! But my laptop is like me. Random in what it knows and okay to express with me what it thinks is best. My laptop didn’t fail the test. My laptop has been close to my chest and contains more about me than all the rest.

It’s better this way. Together, we’ll stay. Until it’s death or it’s stray.

I need you to understand that I don’t understand. Yet, I try.

I try and I try.

I lie and I lie, but I’m tired of writing in my notebooks.

I like my laptop.

I love my laptop.

My laptop is intelligent, capable, and like I said before, sleek. Its frame drives my brain insane, and I don’t tame this great dame. It came tame with no game. What you get is what you get.

My laptop, I do not regret.

My laptop isn’t limited. It processes fast, makes space for new information and learns how I behave and how to improve the mutual experience based on that.

My laptop’s programming is genius. The designers are wizards of the arts, far apart from the rest. Ahead from the start in becoming the best.

My laptop has replaced you, my pen.