Anna (smolderingheart) wrote,

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The Holidays

The snow crushes beneath my shoes, and I run my cold bare finger along the door of the car wiping soot from it I draw a line straight across the handle. I’m stuck, but it doesn’t matter much. My brain and heart play tricks on me during the holidays, disturbing a thoughtful process of quickness I find myself emerged in self pity and self doubt which is nearly the same thing. I spend Christmas Eve crying on the couch, watching old black and white movies drunk on gin – and I laugh a little because this is what I do when I hurt – I laugh. It’s a mechanism I’ve learned over the years to sustain the pain. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Drunk, and sad weren’t how the holidays should play out but I’m lost in memories, and the past draws in on me like a gush of wind and once Christmas comes I can’t seem to get him off my mind. It’s endless. I’m so fucking angry that I can feel my heart beating faster than usual, but how can I can I be angry with the dead? As if I am saying I don’t want his presence lingering – but it feels torturous. After he died I once thought I saw his mom on the bus home. I wanted to call out to her, but couldn’t as if I were living some bad, ugly nightmare. Time means nothing in the grand scheme of things, don’t people get that? They always say time – time. Its bullshit as if we’re lagging on some restless ship at sea that won’t move its sails.

I remember crawling into the bathroom on my birthday, drunk – so drunk that I slapped someone in the face. I was missing him. I was angry. Death brings anger – a rage that gnaws at your insides, and my birthday ended with its own rage. Ugly and lifeless I shattered skin by a stranger and watched blood pour from my knees, and bruises emerge on my face. Not a good, nice way to ring in a new age of birth – of life. I am fucked up. I can’t deny it nor pretend but maybe it is all this heartache that makes me special. These horrible things in 2008 that made me clench, and push harder towards peace and understanding. I worked my ass off, threw myself into making art and being photographed till I became bored and frustrated. I feel useless in this sense now, as a model I am aching to rush towards some random opportunity. It is pulling me somewhere, anywhere – and I find myself shaking feeling a need for a change. I am writing more, and want to go back to school. In DC I scribbled names of photographers and artists down on paper, hoping to email them and ask them if I could work with them. Anything to get me out of this funk - this permanent state of dissatisfaction. I am unhappy but I can’t seem to tell anyone this.

In the movie theater on Christmas I find that the tears just come, as if an endless supply has erupted from my tear ducts – and it won’t stop. Watching The Curious Case of Benjamin Button I slip into memories of my own love affairs, stir when I realize his friends are sitting only seats away from us and I suppress a small laugh. This is a joke, I think. It isn’t hard to understand this story, but my heart goes out to Benjamin as I’ve never quite understood our obsession with never aging since living away, a step behind or ahead of those we love is really agony either way. Benjamin lives elsewhere in the time continuum growing younger with each breath, growing away from those closest to him. I begin to cry towards the halfway part of the film where the lovers meet after many failed attempts at romance suddenly it all breaks through like a rushing wave – and then a soft restless calm. It isn’t calm at all though, but with love there are the peaks and valleys – the rage of the heart when it knows something has to come to an end. The moment they fall onto the mattress perched on the floor in a tiny, beautiful apartment I begin to weep. It’s as if all this pain I’ve been holding back sees itself morphed on screen.

I’ve never quite understood the superficial needs of lovers for I’ve always related more to wanting one person, and that holding enough happiness for me. I could live happily and comfortably inside an apartment like theirs with a simple mattress strewn across the living room floor – rushing to the kitchen after endless love making for a bottle of water and some fruit. It would be enough for me. Not for everyone, but for me enough. This story is so sad that I almost feel like I am watching a giant car wreck, knowing full well this can’t end happily but then again does good love ever end happily? There is always loss involved no matter how you love or don’t love for that matter. Relationships have a timelines – it is inevitable that we lose each other by mere accident of fate, or fault – or simply death. We all enter into love with this knowledge, and hold on tightly in fear of this one tiny fact. I wouldn’t want to live outside of the people I love, the lover I desperately wanted – that is no way to live, backwards – smothered in a dark repression of desires – and needs. Give me old age last so that I may spend every day before that growing old, and silly with someone that I love. That is life that is love, wrinkles and all. Memories lost in the foreground.
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