Happiness is finally getting that splinter out
It hurts, dear. It hurts having your heart cut out. My heart actually, we’re speaking of my heart, my pain, my process of having the splinter picked out. You remember that time when I had one in my foot? You did a pretty clean and good job of getting it out. But there are other kinds of splinters, little pieces of memories, shared stories, shared life, that are not so easily removed. It is necessary to stab, dig in the skin around them, so they can flow out together with the waves of blood and tears that come seeping out of the wounds we just inflicted upon ourselves.
I know it’s absurd, my addressing you in these nightly, sleep deprived ramblings, but I cannot help myself. I’m not done talking to you. You have been my torment and my muse at the same time. Notice I don’t call you my tormentor, not implying any conscious intention. Or should I imply it? I probably will, in the angry phase of my coping process. I’m still in denial, a part of me still hoping I’ll wake up from this bad dream, waking in your soft arms, your warmth healing my anguish. But I have got time, I’m obligated to take my time, I’m compelled to not skip any steps.
But rest assured, in the near future I’ll get very angry at you, I will certainly curse you for your convictions, those principals you hold so high – higher than any person, except yourself –, for the little things that started to annoy me, the little ways from which I deduced your leaving, our end. I will curse you for all those little clues that reminded me of it, every step of the way, right from the beginning, right from that morning on: it was one of our first mornings, when all I wanted to do was to look sheepishly in to your eyes say the most sheepish thing of them all: I think I’m in love with you. I remember saying something along the lines of: I think I’m starting to fall in love with you. And that it was nowhere near the feeling I actually wanted to convey. That feeling seemed to big at the time, to soon, to ridiculously reckless.
I will curse you for your existence even, because you are the one I will never forget, the one that ruined me for the rest of them, because you are, you know, the proverbial first love. Because in the same amount as I feel empty now, in the same way I feel you emptied me, you commanded me to let my defences down just to take advantage of them, in the exact same way, I am blessed by a feeling of inspiration – inspired to contruct these obscene long sentences –, enlightment, of you being able to lift me out of the ordinary, the trivial, the ugly even, into a beautiful world where I felt potent, sure that I was able to surmount myself, able to reach above and out of myself. You had the power to make me commit, to make me better, but you decided not to let greatness in and we both decided to let littleness, belittling, narrow mindedness in.
You were my muse, and tonight you still are. I’m not yet capable of leaving you out of my sentences, out of my train of thought. So tonight I’m using your words, or at least the words in the book you gave me. They are actually about the simplicity of reaching happiness, about how it is near, around us, within reach. About how happiness is about those little moments when a touch of greatness, transcendentalism can be perceived, ever so slight and hidden, but unmistakably present. I decided to abuse those words tonight, to purposely misinterpret them to make them fit my needs.
How I see it, happiness is indeed within an arm’s length of reach and yet – and that’s the frustrating part – completely impossible to grasp. I’m the kind of person that will always have a splinter to pick out, a door knob out of reach, keeping me from happiness, hiding away my final piece/peace of mind behind a curtain, a glass wall, within sight or hearing, why not smelling – happiness is a warm cake – distance, but never present, never with me as an active part of it.
