Let's Not Concern Ourselves

But the reminder is beautiful, and I allow it. Nothing you say changes the past. Isn't that strange; every moment of the day I alter my soon-making memories, my future. And yet in no second can I take back things done. Time is passionless; heartless. Time cares nothing of this human skin we eventually shed to the stomachs of insects and the roots of plants. It does not hold dear these things we feel, time moves on. Time holds nothing of the precise pain of betrayal, or the keen sting of humiliation, or the subtle death of heartbreak. 

Time is sadistic though; he dries the tears as easily as he made them. It is the hero as well as the villain, and so, there, more the villain than anything. Time kills and creates, destroys and builds. All these questions of theology and philosophy are pointless; time is master. And he probably laughs as we struggle. Our great conundrums are futile and far too pedantic for time. His wiles to us are the contrite qualities of his existence. Though whose to label his existence, as he is the puppeteer. 

But in any case the pain you inflicted on me whips my little marionette body between emotions and the passing of time.  One my rock and one my hard place; but time laughs because he is the only hard place and he could crush a rock so easily geologists would weep. So time is working dear. I know because he always is and always was. So I'll leave your pain in that funny little file that assesses my achievements and mistakes in the same breath. My file on you is getting denser as our story grows, but it might end here; only time will tell, and as I said he is sadistic. 

But it really does forward my progress, but only to the extent that I now feel more pain when I think of you than when I look at you. Which some would call progress, though I think time would call humor. You provide nothing for me now except an excellent story I'll never tell. My room feels wrong now, in case you wondered. Tainted; and time has yet to make it feel better. So on top of everything you ruined my sanctuary, and broke the pretty memory. 

So as bad as it gets here, I try to kill how you live in my mind. You were so lovely there, no one ever appeared to care more, but it was a terribly beautiful lie. And my absolute embarrassment lives in the red of my cheeks. Could you imagine what you've done? Every memory is like a thousand reasons to die, and every claim at over drama hasn't had my past. Place your claims once you've watched your life run red down a drain. 

I'm trying not to care, and the ease of which I normally force this has escaped me. That night, it haunts me, because you were different. I don't know how you separated yourself from all the others who've ventured into my head, my life, my bed... 

And in my memory you live as a god; control me, manipulate me, and claim the terrible skill with which you play. It causes me physical representations of my emotions, so watch me shiver as my stomach locks. The worst, of course, is that its my propensity to tend to that. It contradicts my outward personality to say, but I crave the submission, because time is sadistic and I his sicker; maso. I tremble in the tyranny, relish in my own pain. I am the trigger, I call for my suffering. 

The scale plays something like this: the lowest low pitted on the mania, with the numbness at the bottom. So I trade them; we, my emotion and I, barter. So the fault lies within my self, and in that I constantly find my frame of mind. Have you ever noticed how everything is my fault? It's some kind of phenomena. I am miraculously full of faults. So I take back that you should apologize; I'm the one to blame. 

So death, I wish, were imminent. It could be, but my fault comes again and questions who will blame me. Everyone, because I am to blame. Time's scared of these thoughts; he says he had other plans. It's the only way to cheat time truly, and what I consider is the quickest way. Time, dear, go fetch my travelling cloak. I'm moving on tonight.