I texted her back after twenty hours or so. I just couldn’t stand to not try and talk to her.

Listening to Birdy’s rendition of 1901 never felt so heartfelt until now- I’ve loved that song and I discovered this song almost a year ago already. Just about this time last year. I found Birdy’s first and I fell in love with its sadness. Even her voice fetched out years of good and bad memories with girls I’ve loved and lost.

I found the original, written by Phoenix – and it was the exact opposite. Music spelled life in between the words that string together.

This song. Two artists, the same song, different sounds – different call-backs, different evocation, different feelings. Same words, different jolt.

Maybe the first time in two and a half years, it felt so real. The feeling of slipping away. She has always been there, we have been always tight through thick and thin and through the bad fights, but this time I feel its difference-

I’ve pushed her away more than enough. Strained to the point of breakage.

I was wrong. I know I was wrong.

But I have no idea how to make things right. We talk. We talk again. Every night is a downward spiral. I wish I didn’t go bad that one week. I wish I didn’t say all the wrong words that I’ve said. I wish I didn’t let myself go so low. Now, slowly, I see her slowly going away.

The fear, for the longest time in my life, has kept me in between.

I don’t know if we’re going to be all right. I don’t know if we’re going to fix ourselves again. I don’t know what she wants except for time and space and I’m doing my best to give it to her. I wish I could give more. I wish I could think about us less.

I wish to be drowned in work. I wish to be swamped in meetings, in concepts, in shoots, in rendering, in patterns –

I wish to be buried in words, in letters, in books, in movies-

I wish I could work it all out. Sweat all the sadness away. Drink all the thoughts down. Swallow it down like a prickly fish bone. For the first time in the longest time, losing her felt so real.

I’d be anything you ask and more, saying hey, It’s not a miracle we needed – and I wouldn’t let you think so 

I don’t know who I’ll talk to, I don’t know who to run to- I don’t know what to say or what to write or what to feel about it – when all I do is wait for the time to know that she’s back or she’s not. I don’t like waiting. I want to make things happen. But in my seat, I’m glued to wait, just to make things happen. I don’t know if doing anything to try to save us will actually save us. I don’t know what to do. Maybe this is the part where they say ‘everything’s too fucked up to get fixed’.

I’m tired. It’s exhausting me. It’s bringing me down.

I want to pour out all of my feelings in this letter. But I still can’t. I want escape.

– – –

It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they’re gone. I’m too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.

Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I’m too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don’t have the passion anymore, and so remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.

Kurt Cobain, 1994

– – –

I wish I met the guy.


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