"Here you are," you say to yourself, staring curiously into the mirror, "you're still here."
You used to speak to yourself all the time—constantly engaging in these internal dialogues, desperately trying to find a voice: yours, his, God's. But for the past few months, you've given up these conversations for sensation. Chemically induced, this new state of being helped you sleep. You no longer needed to cry yourself to sleep, unaware of your worth. Instead, you could just sleep with a smile on your face, temporarily forgetting the void in your Self. It is this Self that you now see there in that reflection, but he is older, thinner, and just as scared. You did them all, well not all, but almost. You went up, then came down. You exploded, and then imploded. You learned how to combine substances better than any chemist ever could dream of. You knew what to take, and when to take it; your expertise being massaged into being by your friends and comrades. And then you blinked, and you were a pro. You yawned at realizing you had grown tired of them: drugs. Only when you realized that your head was empty when sober did you begin to question. You question your Self, but he is too comatose to respond. Staring back at you dreamily, with his mouth open, he waits for the command to swallow.
"I have nothing new to give you…" you murmur, knowing full well there are bigger and better things to try. But you grow scared. You grow scared of the sound of wind blowing through your once busy brain. You grow fearful of the possibilities these bigger and better can bring. How loud can you make the silence? What new buzzing will replace the constant ringing that has replaced dialogue?
And now, as feeling starts to crawl back into your tips and toes, you miss the silence and beg for a nap. You beg for that dizzy feeling of disorientation, the feeling that stops you from being aware of the pain, of the present. That feeling has left it's mark on the inside of your stomach—an ulcer ready to remind you of your choices in the past, and to make future ones more problematic.
Slowly you wake up, and feel the presence of a man sleeping next to you.
"Good morning." He says to you, running his hands up and down your body, trying to hide his smile. You close your eyes and give back the obligatory response,
"Good morning." Trying to forget that you don't share the same feelings he does. Again, there is silence in your head, as you try to speak, unsuccessfully. And you lie there, in bed with him, and you listen to him speak; speaking for you, in order to make up for your lack of interest. You sense he knows, so you fake a laugh, give a nod, ask a question—anything to satisfy your guilt; anything to justify your blatant use of a man to help fill a void. Casual sex has left you unfulfilled. You've blinked and now need something bigger and better: a new drug called intimacy. So you feign this interest with a man willing to give you everything, in hopes of fooling your body to feel it. And you get a glimpse every once in a while. You can feel it manifesting in the nape of your knees, and the small of your back, never strong enough to break out and full you with that euphoric feeling that was so easy to come by with a pill. And then you work up the courage to excuse yourself. You put your pants back on, and search for your shirt. And you feel him watching you with adoration the entire time. He comments on how appealing you are (physically of course) and you die a little inside, fully aware that physicality is all you can offer him (that it is all you're capable of offering).
And on your walk home you realize that now, still, even after you've rid yourself of substances; you still rely on something other than yourself to instill happiness.
"Which is better?" you ask your Self in the mirror. But he simply stares, hiding the answer in his mouth. This is his revenge for silencing him. And now, when even your soul has turned his back to you, you wash your face and your hands, and get ready for your day, praying to God no one screams at the sight of the walking dead as they bump into you on the street.
You don't give yourself enough credit.
-T
