The art of missing someone–Among other life realizations, the last several months have been characterized by solitude. Truthfully, I miss someone, more than I ever have before, more than I had noticed. What about a person makes them “stick”?
The art of missing someone seems to take place in phases. It inspires true anguish with no outlet. As my favorite fortune cookie from Khai Hoan Vietnamese Restaurant in Tempe, AZ said in the winter of 2008: Time makes lighter what sorrow may not heal.
The Void. You’ve internalized and suppressed a lot of the feelings which comes with missing someone. The pain is one thing, the void is another. The void of day dream. The void of optimism. The void of companionship. Nothing makes you happy the same way these day dreams would. Nothing makes you smile like his conversation made you smile. Nothing feels as close as just knowing he’s there… somewhere. You think about nothing.
Grasping the Void. After several weeks of attempting to sustain some sort of contact, you realize that you have nothing to say, though you’ve said plenty. It’s meaningless, and you regret most of what you say, for nothing really explains your state of mind. You realize, most importantly, that he has nothing to say. He listens without responding. He is uncomfortable; you are strangers again. The void materializes in your mind.
Filling the Void. You think this is something you can recover. Nothing specifically went wrong, but whatever it is, it’s in your control to change. You think so highly of each other. You can visualize yourself reaching out to him. You can visualize him responding. You’re delusional.
Becoming the Void. Your head is empty. You’re functioning. You’re unhappy. You’re a shell of who you thought you were. You realize you’re a stranger in your own body. You have no one to define yourself by. You lack definition. You cut ties with your definition. You’re finding yourself, only to become more lost in the structureless pile which is now your personality- own it. You lose focus. You can only swallow simple sentences. You reduce your media intake and spend your time sitting still, sleeping, being the void.
Escaping the Void. You cheat on your goals. You allow yourself to day dream. You excite your emotions with memories of him. You can’t talk to him; you still have nothing to say. You fill the void with superficial thoughts just to step across something without being swallowed. You cry alone sparingly. You feel like you’ve truly lost something which is still making you happy. You seek things which remind you of him. You hate yourself for it.
Projecting the Void. This is the vicious cyclical compulsion which is why you knew you had to cut all communication long ago. You spend sleepless nights and thoughtless days with a singular inquisitive notion in your head. It is the center of your thoughts, it is there, pulsing and emanating into your every move. Like a dull pain, it never strengthens nor subsides. You’re just wondering…. Am I totally alone with this void, or does he feel it too? You’re wise enough to do yourself the favor of never asking.
A poem or two, I’ll write just for you. Though rusty, I used to do this all the time.
Before I could speak the words which repel my prey. Regret and mistakes are only words, blotching the sensation consuming me.
Elated- I have no photographs or many physical memories to clutter my space. It’s simple and plain. Blank as I’m drawing rhetorical shots to take. Me demons scoff at my shoulder, instigate the vain attack.
They’re vicious and repressed, they’re mocking and childish. Uncultivated shadows, coloring my thoughts black and white, blotching the sensation. Callous demon creatures.
A brilliant one of three, among what must be masses to hang my pride on this glowing achievement. A shame to say: You’re one of one. The demons howl at what fool must believe how dazzling people say I should be. To be told I am loved is a singular occurrence in my world of plenty.
The attachment which comes with the territory of firsts is a stranger. A shame again, to expose the brittle truth, I sometimes break before I bend. Break to detach, I’ve never held on before I’ve let go. In a whirl of firsts, I’ve never let go without forcibly prying the fingers from my wrist.
Only words now mean nothing- before, I could speak. Regret and mistake, a duo of demons perched on my shoulder.
I want to tell you how I’m hurting. More than anything- I want to hear something from you. An outcry of honesty, your frustration, annoyance. Whatever is the genuine sensation consuming you. Regret and doubt glare just as strongly as the sweet nothings, one of three.
Television: Don’t Trust the B— in Apartment 23; Scrubs; Remember the Titans