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And you feel used, and tattered and so terribly jaded. That’s the power of this unspeakable thing, it can bury you a mile below the ground till your chest is screaming out in pain, it can take no more, yet surprisingly it stays in one piece, unlike those love songs and novelettes speaking of broken hearts. You feel like a package of errors, like it always, always was your fault. You want to start afresh but something tells you that might never happen. You feel sometimes like running, towards the past because… I don’t even know why. You know, exactly, precisely what you want. You know it in the morning, you know it in those blurry moments of neither sleep nor awakening, and you know it as your eyes droop emptily, against your will at night. You know it, in those moments of abandonment; you know it when the only thing that matters is want. You know it when you let yourself go, since you’re nothing but a parcel of facades and charades. You know it in your real self, the self who is neither within you nor apart.

Yet, you cannot let go. Chained feet, with those nerve endings and those toenails. Those toenails which you made fun of once upon a time together. With memory, sense returns, sometimes and so do all those questions, those problems, the doubts. The sense of jadedness, that knowledge of not being able to feel things anew. The past returns in all its crumbled majesty, with its beautifully terrible baggage of memories, of promise of vows, of things you’re afraid you will never forget. You stare at what you used to be, and you know that there is still a point of intersection between you and what there was of you, as there always is. There are no separate sets in what we call life, just intersecting ones.

But then again, wait. Maybe there are moments in life. Of happiness, of laughter which reached the very depth of your soul; moments of half-said and unsaid things. Moments of heartbreaking happiness, of hurting cheek muscles and jokes, which made your days. Moments where you squirmed in bed because you were so fucking happy, moments where you felt like everything you said was falling on ears that entirely understood. They knew. And they felt it too, and that perhaps is the separate set, a story which might never get told. Because the most beautiful ones are hardly ever are. Melancholic, no? So where was I? So, yes maybe, that is perhaps what is kept apart from the dirt, the pain, the guilt. That is the brilliant story which is kept apart from everything.

Despite knowing that it is only yourself that can help you, you just want to be saved. You want to have what you want, you want to deserve what you want, and you want to be helped.

You want to be saved, so fucking bad.