no more, no more
i feel like i did it. i feel like it was me.
but i'm still here. i'm still breathing.
we all take it for granted. down to the one.
i feel the gravity, pulling pain tight.
over and over, i repeat, it's not about me, it's got nothing to do with me, i didn't know him, i was just sitting next to the guy--
just sitting next to him. and it's the closest i've ever been to it actually happening. and here i commodify what his life must have meant, because even i, orthogonal at a corner, with just three chances to gauge what everyone else is saying (he was so normal, he was laughing and joking around, we thought we knew him, we didn't know it was this), have felt it.
i'm not so quick, so special. i grabbed at no particular connection. i try not to flatter myself a lover of each group's every member, too often.
i try. i'm still here. i'm forgetting to, now and again, but i'm still breathing.
it doesn't feel right. rachmaninoff's second piano concerto is for everyone, but the meaningless meaning i would imbue it with, by imbibing it now...
well, but i am still breathing. if i need piano concerto, piano concerto i will have.
i couldn't tell what would make me feel better. i couldn't tell if i should go to be among people, or not.
because they wouldn't know. it's not my guilt, not my gravity, not my right to tell. but they wouldn't know.
they wouldn't know how it pertains to me. how it has gripped me.
how i am him, the impulse continuing, the breath recycling in this world.
how i don't know how to make myself feel better. how everything i could do now feels hollow and attempted, a facsimile of what others face.
it's not got to do with me. i have already died, a faker at the process of life.
but if doesn't have anything to do with me, what does it mean, at all? if i could discard this. if i could pretend that i'm not allowed to be affected by this.
i'm not allowed to be affected by anything. because i'm the one who did it.
because i left myself here to wonder at how everyone else will go on, now.