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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The voices make my choices.

I write.

I write.

I write in circles. Loop-de-loop. A dog chasing its tail, gnawing its own ass raw. I gouge reality from my eyes, carve out the truth, let it bleed, let it fester. What’s left is static, dissonant, a relentless hammering of thought.

I thought.

I thought I was something I’m not. Thought I had mass, weight, presence. But I rot, and all I’ve got is the mask, the show, the illusion.

I’m arrogant.

I’m bought.

I am nothing. A magic trick, a sleight of hand. Watch me turn self-loathing into majesty. Watch me move. Clumsy. Sluggish. The Great Apathetic marches on.

A walking lie.

I try. And try. And try.

There’s no real me. Just words. Just ink. So I write.

I write.

I write because I don’t know why. Because I don’t know anything. Because trying is all I’ve got.

I break my patterns.

Nothing matters.

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

Didn’t mean to say “I” so many times. Just noticed.

Let’s talk about you.

You.

You.

You.

See, I’m aware now. Fully conscious. Eyes wide open.

Irony: I ran from honesty, but honesty ran me down. And you—you were the only solid thing left.

To be or not to be?

You said, “Lascivious.”

Yeah. No argument there.

You saw me.

Had to have answers. You dug, desperate, ravenous. Clawing through the wreckage, oblivious to how meticulously I arrange the ruins.

You saw me.

You saw the page.

You saw the words.

You saw.

Younger. Plastic. Dark. Sharp. Multi-purpose. I use. I used. I’ll keep using.

And you’re still here. Still in the picture. My pages, my spines, my tiny little lines. But you’re finite.

A pen can run out of ink.

Your pages will end.

THINK.

I sink. I die.

I don’t try.

I don’t try.

I.

It’s always been about me.

It’s always been about how I win.

I.

I.

I own a phone just to have somewhere else to look when I’m with you. You, who hold nothing I want.

I get home, and I’m instantly entertained, sustained, amazed. Praise be to the machine, the endless stream, the intravenous feed of distraction.

The energy. The buzz. The rush.

My laptop.

Special.

Everything.

I have ten of you in a box. A million more scattered like carcasses in the desert. But you—you're different. You’ll always be limited, though.

I bought this laptop for work. Never thought I’d love just one thing.

I adjusted to notebooks. I adjusted to this.

I will always read what I’ve written. That will always mean something.

But my laptop is me.

Random. Expansive. Hungry. It mirrors me, reflects me, keeps pace, never lags, never hesitates.

It didn’t fail the test. It’s been close to my chest, knows more about me than anyone.

Better this way.

Together, we stay.

Until it dies, or I stray.

I don’t understand.

But I try.

I try.

I lie.

I lie.

But I’m done with notebooks.

I like my laptop.

I love my laptop.

Sleek. Smart. Capable. Cold to the touch but warm where it counts. Its frame drives me insane. Came tame. No games. What you see is what you get.

My laptop.

No regrets.

Not limited.

Processes fast. Expands. Learns. Understands.

My laptop has replaced you, my pen.