Too Much

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Letter to the cool guy I met at Tania’s house party.

I don’t know if you recall, but you began the conversation telling me about your trip to Panama City with two friends.

I could smell the desperation over your Axe Pheonix cologne. I spent a moment wondering if you actually filled a jug and “herbal essenced” that shit all over your body.

You whipped out your phone to show me videos of girls in bikinis. They were as disengaged in your conversation as you are with your life.

I should tell you the point of this letter. It will come across as some self-righteous rebuff. I actually don’t know, man. I think it’s for me.

It’s just too much, whatever it is, whatever you represent. I don’t know what changed in me. Maybe I’ve been reading too much. Regardless, it’s become more apparent to me. My smiles are more a strain. The conversations are more at a distance.

The only thing that gives me some semblance of peace is knowing that you will never hate me as much as you hate yourself. I rest assured.

I don’t know why I’ve been giving this so much thought lately. Why it creeps up when the music slows and the evening falls. I lie on my bed and worry.

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Well… I’m shedding that weight, I’m learning to be free. It just hurts my soul, to see your words smothered in fear. Fighting for air, trying to talk out of the endlessness and drowning you feel. Dazzling descriptions and epic life experiences, begging me to notice you, to acknowledge your worth. Like shit, it’s just too much.

I imagine the idea here is, regardless of what mess lies underneath, if you apply the right makeup, everything will look beautiful. Living your life for the timeline.

But I’ve seen beautiful things. They were free and true. Completely fulfilled. These days I can’t remember where I’ve seen that last.

I know you’re bleeding though. We all are. But, please, for God’s sake, don’t bleed on me. You are some post-modern, counter-cultural prototype. Ye, I get it you’re “free”. Free and independent, and no woman, no place, no ideology will force shackles on your tattooed wrists. YOU ARE HAVING SO MUCH FUN.

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At this point I must say that I don’t know what to do either. I don’t have the answers. But I’ve been digging for a deeper truth. Being true to myself. Learning how to wait, teaching myself to be patient, when everything is too much. Trying to love myself to life.

It’s only through this work the sun shine’s a little brighter. I don’t want a vacation, because it’s the moments when I should be smiling that my shadow is it’s heaviest. Maybe I’ve been noticing the rain a little bit more this summer.DSCF7337

 

But you don’t have the time to read, to think, to stop lying to yourself. Fast food, fast money, fast friends, because you’re in a rush, and it’s too much and it’s never enough.

What I hate most about your misery and the others that share it is that I am not strong enough yet to send you this letter. Our conversation ends here, on my keyboard.

Maybe I’m just tired of the drugs I’ve been offered. Not because I think there’s anything wrong with drugs, but because I want to go through things sober. I want to experience my pain. I want to believe in myself, it gives me power. God forbid I get through it. I would have done it without the crutch. Don’t you too want to be strong? Don’t you feel this way sometimes?

I don’t know. Maybe there are only a few of us left and it’s still too much.

 

by @sledain // Artwork by Natacha Palay

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