#whatelsecaniputijustwanttowrite

[tinybirdsupporter]

IT'S THE TYPE OF THING THAT...

you become religious over. It’s the type of feeling that you’d lose everything over.

It’s the type of thing that knocks your trajectory into an unrecognizable shape, a new path forged by the sheer power of a feeling, of a connection, of a thing.

A thing that doesn’t ask for permission, a thing that knocks your fucking door down and takes everything with it. You can’t say no. You’ll always say yes.

A thing that rocks you so vividly that you’ll never let it in again. A thing that scars you so bad that you’ll only bring it up in a whispered monotone, shoving back the screaming sobs that could burst from your throat at any given push.

It’s the type of relationship that permanently exes you out from any casual game, cause casualness hides intention, and casualness gives you a pretend sense of security. Casualness pretends you’re on the same page, pretends you’re so in sync that nothing needs be spoken. Casualness pretends for you, beckons a reliance on its continued illusion. Casualness pretends something is there, for you, and you know now that there is always a moment where you’ll find out. You don’t flirt casually again, and your heart thumps in a worrying way when someone does it to you. They don’t know. They haven’t been where I’ve been.

It’s the type of thing that makes you shut your eyes closed for three years. It’s the type of thing that only can be looked back on by the fourth.

It’s the type of thing to make you dash blindly, screaming the whole way through. To sear hysteria from your lungs to feel some type of vindication in response to the pain you’ve been exposed to. To have any way of expressing how deeply the wound runs.

To scream, just so others might hear. Because this type of wound needs community to heal.

It’s the type of thing that grips your heart so viciously that you write forty million sentences over the course of these three years trying to pin it down, wash it out. It’s the type of thing that if you really try to remember, you could write infinitely more, anyway. Cause it’s fucking unexplainable. And you just hope that whoever’s reading has had it, you wish that they’ve had it so bad, cause forty million fingers gesturing to an immaterial mass still doesn’t make out anything solid. I’ll spend my life vicious gesticulating to express the languageless, to identify that which cannot be defined— as “to define is to limit,”— and to limit is to misdefine.

The type of wound that you’d avoid even looking at— somehow it would cause it to bleed. The type of wound that takes a lifetime to heal.

Three years pass and the grief is not summoned so easily anymore. You’ll run your palm over it— the old diary passages that rabid you drowned in a red marker, some remnants of pages that you tore out from the seams— and after three years, you don’t even remember the first word of what they might’ve said. You cannot remember what might’ve hurt so bad. You only remember that it did; you’ll get flashes of those quiet breakdowns in your childhood bathroom, memories mere vestiges of you in the forgotten moment. You only remember that it, whatever it was, hurt, and now it, whatever it was, doesn’t.

You’ll clean out your childhood room when your parents move— in this economy, who is doing anything but renting, of course— and some polaroids fall out. These are the only tangible memories left, and there used to be around eight of them. You have two now. Rabid you knew that you’d want one piece of proof, and then also two, cause he was cute enough, too. They’re on the floor now, and you get hit with some pang of fear— maybe his mere face is a trigger, now, cause it conjures just the weirdest feeling. You can’t define it. You wonder where he is, and how you got here— better, how you got there, in that room, **blue walls, blue plaid bed in the corner. It’s indefinable, the feeling. The feeling that comes when you ask how you were lucky enough for that to happen, for two circumstances to acutely cross, for your seventeen-year-old-self to experience deep, true, unadulterated love. You were seventeen, and he was eighteen. How did we get so lucky?

Of course, we were each other’s worst nightmare, each other’s worst shadow self come to life— anxious, avoidant, emotional, detached— this is all encompassed in the feeling that comes after, however it never denies the feeling that came before. I fucking hated him and I’m sure he fucking hated me. It is phenomenal how these cycles of hurt we put each other through never came close to tainting the requisite, the necessity, the inpurgable need to love each other— I finally conjured the balls to break up with him, but only after proof, after proof, after proof of us being wholly, determinately, irrevocably horrible for each other. A mere trust that there must certainly be a different way to find that kind of love than to experience heartbreak over and over and over again. Bargaining your way into acceptance.

It’s the type of thing that’ll break your brain. It’s the type of thing you’ll find your faith from. You’ll say I already said that, but religion and faith are different. You’d know that if you could feel it.

I will never know what my diary pages said— some shit surely about losing my virginity, definitely some passages about lovelorn fanaticism— I guess it is okay to not know. Looking back is something I don’t do much anymore— it is like trying to capture a photo of the moon with your phone’s camera— no re-imaging will ever capture the moment, no reimagining could ever bring what was.

The love cannot be summoned, but it means that the pain can’t either.

It is okay with me.

I know I have the capacity for it— whatever it is— and that makes me feel it anyway. Remembering the chance encounters that enformed it all— I am reminded that simply living life will bring all this love back to me. And this, this is the faith I found in its wake— the chance for it, it being something better, too, to exist again.

[zenlesszonezero]

Join Zenless Zone Zero with Tsukishiro Yanagi, the deputy leader of Hollow Special Operations Section 6! Beneath her ordinary office lady exterior lies a meticulous, emotionally intelligent big sister to the team.