closed prose

Intimacy has nothing to do with sex - it is so much more than that… True intimacy is a state in which nothing exists between two people; no space, no inhibitions and no lies. It is two people who are spiritually in unison, united in a way that transcends the physical….
You can have sex with someone but that doesn’t mean it’s intimate - and you can be a million miles from someone, unable to touch them at all and be completely intimate with them. Physical distance is irrelevant if you’ve reached a state in which the entire world disappears and only the two of you exist. Together you form an impenetrable spiritual bond… nothing can come between you quite simply because nothing exists between you. You are soulmates, each possessing the others key components… one simply cannot function without the other. You cannot lie to them – they know you so well it’s as useless as trying to lie to yourself. You cannot put on any false personas with them - they know, love and accept all of you just as you are… even the darkest, ugliest parts of yourself you’re too ashamed to admit… A person who is intimate with you see’s all these things without even blinking…. with them you are both utterly vulnerable and completely safe.
And THAT is loves deepest desire… For someone to KNOW you – who you truly are because they are the closest person you have in the world and they love all of you, just as you are.
You can be physical with someone and have them for a night – or you can be intimate with someone and have them for a lifetime…
Granted, intimacy involves more time, effort and risk… but the experience is infinitely more rewarding and the love it inspires will last a lifetime…
We used to be something real, but now we’re just words.
Words in my memory, words in old letters and emails… and words that were left unsaid.
They’re so empty aren’t they, words… they’re just sounds that you make that have a recognized meaning to somebody else, almost like crying in a way… But if no one’s around to hear them does that make them meaningless?
If I called you and told you that I loved you would it mean something to you? Would it make a difference? Or is it better to keep those words purely as silent thoughts and nothing more?
Is it the act of speaking them aloud or writing them out for someone else to acknowledge that gives them their meaning… Or does their existence alone give them substance, even if they’re only thoughts?
You know, so much time has passed now that your name has become just a word. It is no longer a greeting, a loving description or a passionate whisper; it has lost those meanings…
So tell me - If I never speak your name again… will you eventually mean nothing to me?
—  Ranata Suzuki  “Meaningless Words”
I often hold on to past, that’s true. But once I stop, I close the door behind me. I burn all the bridges and spit on their ashes. Should you ever want me again, you won’t find your way back to me.
—  The way is shut, Luna
2

this is it, the last remaining pieces of you narrowed down to a box, sealed shut. you’re going to look at these things, and maybe you wont remember the things I did. maybe you’ll look at them and they’ll be just that, things, they wont mean anything to you, they will have no special attachments. so i’m giving them back, and they can finally be just that, things and nothing more. do what you want with them, burn them, throw them away, i just don’t want to have them in my life anymore. once you have these few remaining pictures, that’s it, i will no longer have anyway to retrieve them. i have deleted any traces of them through multiple phones. over the years things started to disappear and i let them, but some things i made sure i didn’t lose. there was a card that i threw away, one that said you’d always love me. it’s not a lie, but it’s no longer the truth. that one was hard to part with. i should have sent it back and asked why you even wrote that but instead i threw it in the trash where it will go to nothing but rot, a piece of you and me. so what’s left? a few books that i don’t want on my bookshelf because the only reason i had read them was for you and i don’t want to see their spines, still in good condition with the pages yellowing and collecting dust. they deserve something different. donate them. so someone else’s hands may touch them and these books can have a new story. i never wore that flower in my hair again, not after wearing it out with you. every time i clipped it in, i thought of you, so i always ended up second guessing myself. i would pull it out, clip it back onto my cork board where i always knew that it would be safe. there’s two tags from the new orleans museum of art. do you remember that day? we were standing in an exhibit, i wish i hadn’t forgotten the name, it was about a young man in a gang, but the pictures depicted so much more than that and his life after. you were reading all of the descriptions under each photo, but i, i was looking at you, and i remember this overwhelming feeling of how much i loved you in that exact moment. it’s been almost three years but i still remember your plaid shirt, how you stood under a ceiling light with your hands in your pockets, your back not perfectly straight. i hate that i remember those details, that i created my own museum for them. you’ll find a ticket stub for the zoo. god it was so hot, we always say each other during the summer months. sometimes when it’s muggy i remember those days. maybe i remember the park bench, maybe i remember the candy apples, your smile, the way that my hand felt in yours, maybe i remember you sitting there in the mornings on your phone while you waited for me, maybe i remember the way you had looked at me like i was someone important. maybe i remember the time that you pulled me close and danced with me, singing lowly into my ear and just that feeling of knowing that you didn’t care that there were people looking. maybe i remember all of the stuff that i said i didn’t. so please take them, take the remnants, take the memories, take all of it. 

“Can we at least stay friends?”

His words make you pause and your breath catches in your throat. Can you? Can you accept that his lips will only ever graze your cheek and his kisses won’t trace the curve of your spine and you won’t get to see if he tastes like that strawberry-flavoured chewing gum he always has in his pocket? Can you keep your mouth shut when she buys him a shirt that’s the colour of the setting sun but you know his favourite colour is the shade of blue the sea is when it’s calm? Can you live with the fact that he will call you when she breaks his heart but you will never have the power to mend it? Can you listen to him talking about his wildest dreams for the future and know that you only play a sideline to his crazy wishes? Can you watch him live a life you dreamed having with him with someone else by his side? Really, honestly, can you?

But love, even unrequited, is irrational and even as your head and heart are screaming no your lips are forming the words which may sentence you to a kind of torture worse than death.

“Of course we can.”

—  And I’ll just close my eyes whenever I see your gaze linger on someone else, 16/07/2015 #13
I like to see people reunited, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can’t tell fast enough, the ears that aren’t big enough, the eyes that can’t take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone.
—  Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
gag gifts

Fake vomit, plastic dog shit. She was studying the difference between being funny and simply saying mean things then laughing at them afterward. 

In clinical psychology the term projection was once commonly used to refer to the process whereby a person would “project” some trait or feeling they were uncomfortable with onto others and then describe it, both profusely and negatively. The psychologist’s role, in that scenario,was to recognize the displacement of the trait or more often, the feeling, onto someone else and to identify it as an avoidance tactic. 

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how this term fits into an exercise common in eastern practices whereby we look at the person who most “gets to us” or “hooks us” and we examine how the behavior we find unpleasant in them is really a reflection of something we do not like or have not accepted about ourselves. A way of twisting back into your own projections I guess. 

When you begin to toy with this, from all the angles, and all perspectives involved, there seem to be endless possible combinations and permutations…

For example, this list of things I’ve recently found myself wondering, if anyone has ever wanted, to scream at me:

  • “Thank god you are going to start therapy! Maybe we won’t have to listen to so much of your bullshit.” or
  • “Who cares!?!” or
  • “If you don’t shut up about yourself for half a second it would be obvious how unremarkably much you are just like everyone else.” or
  • “Who cares!?!” or
  • “Look around yourself for a second. Join the club called the rest of us. Oh and be quiet on your way to learn the secret handshake, eh?” or
  • “Who cares!?!” or
  • “You’re not that important!!” or
  • “Who cares!?!” or
  • “Defensive much?” or just simply…
  • “Sshhhhhush.” 

Not that I could ever imagine screaming them at anyone else or anything… not that there’s anyone in particular I want to scream them at right this second…

But now that I’ve typed them out, now that i see them in print. I’m betting the odds are pretty good that there’s someone already screaming them at me. Gag gifts: the thoughts we choke on, if we look too closely, at ourselves. For real. 

i’ve never been good at friendship:
i’ve always been closed off, hidden behind
a mask, never letting anyone close
enough to hurt. never letting anyone close
enough to love either.

my best friend doesn’t know about the
last time i felt low, or about the girl i’ve been
texting who tells me she’ll kiss me
one day, or about the monsters i swear
are living inside of me.

i’m not great at being a friend.
‘cause i say the wrong thing too often,
and you’re not good at texting, and
i go quiet in the evenings. i prefer the
company of the moon anyway.

—  friendship. // r.e.s
We were, as they say, like ships in the night… so close yet so far and all of that. And so, there was nothing I could do but watch helplessly as you drifted away from me, powerless to change the tides…
And now I am an empty vessel, aimlessly drifting with no will to weather the storms. I am a ghostly ship, battered and damaged, doomed to sail the seas alone forever…. For you were my guiding light, my north star, my compass and all my maps… Without you I am directionless, lost…
and fearful I am going in circles…
I’ve come as close as I can,
only inches away from
your fingertips.
It’s now up to you
whether to reach out
or take a step back.
—  Mae, only inches away