|A Date With Miles
||[Sep. 4th, 2005|11:35 pm]
Mostly I can't stand this and reading it makes me realize that that is why I stopped dreaming about being a writer and why looking at anything I've written makes me want to shoot myself. But it's keeping the community alive. Writefight 4-evaah, peace out. P.S. I originally made about four allusions in it but then actually REVISED and made it allusion-free.|
A Date With Miles
by Sara P.
Love is where everything went wrong. Love is the border between polite admiration and jealousy. Love is the line between harmless fears and all-consuming suspicion. Love decays hearts and stomachs and bones until only a shrunken brain loosely connected to a puddle of flesh remains. First love mutates, then it destroys.
I do not mean to sound so callous. I have had my share of friends: people to make easy, meaningless conversation with and share dirty jokes with when more moderate topics fail to entertain. They were not even really friends, just friendly acquaintances, but my most perfect relationships have always been with them, my most perfect happiness has always been accompanied with only mild affection. The place where happiness narrows more and more until it is only a thread of spider’s silk is where intimacy is, and where two people discover that the other is not as wonderful as originally supposed.
I could say I am only sad today. But really I am only wise today. Tomorrow I might not be.
Once the two of us ran out of subjects to talk about, we would lie on the living room floor together and watch television, hoping desperately that something there would electrify our tongues back into movement. One time, we watched a documentary on spiders, which said that if steel was drawn out as thin as spiders’ silk, the silk would be stronger. Both of us already knew this so we said nothing.
The last time we parted, though, I thought, “Human hands destroy spiders’ webs.” Human hands destroy human hearts.
So today I made myself a date with miles, miles stretching over asphalt with double yellow lines, gray mud, broken glass, thirsty trees, poisoned rivers, and bare heads. Miles on a road that does not lead to love and its inevitable burning away of everything inside me that keeps me sane, that keeps me from thinking, “What if I don’t really exist, what if this is a trashy tragic novel, am I empty now because our story is over, and could someone looking for foreshadowing have known that we were doomed from the beginning?”
Love is why I packed all the possessions I could fit into my car and drove away. Love is why I stopped writing until now. Love is why I never came back.
I feel I should reiterate how much this makes me want to vomit.