Eternity's End

Talking to you now, I can remember why we stopped. Those conversations were my subsistence and there was nothing there you needed. I would begin the game, a greeting and an inquiry and you played along. We then delved into updates, parallels, similarities, bridging the gaps with worthless opinion. Thereafter we discussed tastes: songs, artistes, bands and shows. When we finally ran out of things to say the game ended; the pauses extend towards breaking point, after which we say long goodbyes, a promise of a rematch, of round two.

Those games were everything to me, puzzle pieces forming a picture of who you are. But the jigsaw pieces were all white and identical. I came to suspect that it wasn't really a puzzle at all, that the pieces were shaped that way as a decoy. But after awhile it didn't really matter. I decided to collect them, numbering each one as they piled up behind me. The pile grew and when I ran out of space I threw the old ones out. I don't know why I did it. Perhaps I needed proof of your existence.

One day the pieces stopped coming. We grew bored of the game. As time passed, it grew harder as we gradually lost our congruities in distance and situation; I who needed you and you, immune to need. I stopped collecting. They were all the same piece. Talking to you now, I hold a piece, warm in my hand, and throw it out with an alt+f4.

Save me the dark that comes with the evening
Which lengthens the shadows as the day ends
And reaches for me, its sweet voice pining,
Calling out softly as nightfall descends.
But eyes do not shut, mind does not wander.
In glorious stillness, a quest for peace
To walk wide awake through Earth's wakeless slumber
Begins with a spark and gentle release.

So join if you will this midnight sojourn,
Cradling starlight, embracing the moon;
These heavenly muses, creation to spurn
The rest of our lives that wither too soon.
So the music plays on, ever stronger,
Till dawn breaks and I'm myself no longer.

It is a common habit for people to rate or characterize their years, myself included, to access the direction or possibility of progress, for better or for worse. I view it in a linear aspect, charting in retrospect the heights and depths of personal experience. A year is the time segment of choice, simply because of it's recurrence of events, though each event, independently, holds it's own disparate meaning. We then look back on the 31st of December and determine the year's significance; or perhaps it's just my way of instilling meaning.

I am on a rise, a gentle incline, but upwards nonetheless. After all, up is the only way to go from here. Healing is slow for me and perhaps the longest stage is acceptance. It has taken a year and even then i doubt it's fully gone. Pain, it seems, is a tricky bastard - plays dead after you land a few punches, then gets up and stabs you in the back. I still feel the emptiness, still lose sleep, still can't listen through the songs that remind me of you. But i am living and learning, to never again fall for the same emotion, for the same pain.

Life is looking up. The incubation period is over it seems and the sutures no longer have their place. Human interaction seems less distasteful and i feel i have more to lose. There is somehow the sense of loss, an amputation of the ability to feel the same way as before, but perhaps that's what it means to grow. I think, i can now accurately say i am moving on.
 

It's all a spiral, a constant motion, a dance an a swift end. It's taken too many seasons, too many shards, for the lights in the hall to dim. I wouldn't mind the stares, if we could only find what we're looking for, through the first steps out the bedroom door, though the careless shifting of the sunlight on the floor, through the rise and fall of each breath she takes, no matter how irrelevant. There will be time, there will be moments, between this sundown and the next, time enough to make one mine. There will be hope, there will be redemption, more than anyone cares to see, more than anyone could fathom in a single embrace.

One by one, we take our place, forcing on ourselves what needs to be forced, pushing on the fragments of concrete sky. I will come to accept this foreign safety, this clandestine monotony, then I will no longer be a stranger. I will be material. Sundays will finally fade when monday comes around. So i will wait in my safe place, just counting the stars one thousand at a time, scanning the horizon for the new sun to rise.

But you've already lost, when you only had barely enough of her to hang on.
 

It's odd now, this new feeling, or the lack thereof. There's no pain where pain should be, no heart attack, no searing wafts of white light, no sleepless nights and clouded skies. There's just a reckless abandon, a blinding rush to whatever i'm hurtling towards. I feel the danger in being alive, the potential for gravity. It could be retaliation, or rebound, or re-anything that connotes a cause and effect. It's hard to live with the high opportunity cost of caring and perhaps all i need is to stop giving a damn. I can't help this extremity, but tragedies come and go. I can't climb these narrow stairs but what's the point of climbing? This could end in flames but hell, whatever.

 
Woke up and wished I was dead
With an aching in my head
I lay motionless in bed
I thought of you and where you'd gone
And let the world spin madly on

Everything that I said I'd do
Like make the world brand new
And take the time for you
I just got lost and slept right through the dawn
And the world spins madly on

I let the days go by
I always say goodbye
I watch the stars from my windowsill
The whole world is moving and I'm standing still

Woke up and wished that I was dead
With an aching in my head
I lay motionless in bed
The night is here and the day is gone
And the world spins madly on

I thought of you and where you'd gone
And let the world spin madly on

I've been thinking that songs are more essential than people. In fact most things are, things that don't disappear that easily. No it's not that. I think songs just make me feel better. 

It's not that they don't end. Nothing is permanent. Nothing is sound. 

Every great song ends. Is that any reason not to enjoy the music?

Bittersweet, everytime.

Every single time.