It turns out that it's possible to use someone without any intention. It's as simple as talking to someone, laughing with them, flirting a bit, going round to their place to watch a DVD - and BAM - it hits you. Like ice. YOU DON'T EVEN FUCKING LIKE HIM. And you realise to your own horror, that all this time you've projected your inner delusion on to this poor guy who actually genuinely likes you back -he cooked you dinner, bought your favourite drink for you at work, waited for you in the pouring rain to make sure you got back safe in the dark to your car. And you realise in that instant that even if he was Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp - even some divine cross breed of the two - that you wouldn't want to kiss him. Because your heart isn't your own any more, it's his. And as much as he doesn't love you, you can't erase your feelings with the power of thought. As much as you want to turn a light off and it go out, love isn't like that.
I'm no less capable of loving him than the earth is capable of breaking out of it's orbit from around the sun. And with realisation of that comes the utter devastation of the powerless. The familiar slide into nihilism that comes over me with a melancholy comfort. A blanket of thorns over which I wrap this wretched thing that used to be my heart.
I don't know if the worst thing was realising that I used him, or the afterthought of complete loneliness and longing for someone I can never have. Desire isn't new to me. If willpower alone could have resurrected a corpse, I would have done it by now. But there is no magic, there is no happy ending, and I know that more than anyone.
I'm so tired of being the person stood on the sidelines, looking in at all the happy people, with their perfect cookie-cutter lives. Married, kids, a house, well travelled, and most of all HAPPY. Why oh WHY can't that be me?! Was I put on this earth as a study into human misery?
The rage of maddening thoughts pounded my head so fucking hard that I felt like laying down on the floor of John's apartment and dying. Not even doing anything to aid the act, just lying their, eyes closed, refusing to eat or drink until this is all over.
No more broken heart.
No more longing.
No more sadness.
I knew I couldn't take another instant of this. That I could NOT be me for a second longer. As if another instant would detonate me. End me.
So I called up an old friend (read: dealer), and within 30 minutes I'd snorted 5 lines of coke off the kitchen table. It's comforting to know that divinity can be achieved for £50. White powder brings me immortality. When i'm high on coke the world is my play thing. I'm immortal. I can drive my car as fast as I like through the streets and no-one dare stop me. And most of all, everyone loves me, even you. And for a fleeting moment, i'm actually happy.
Ah, the sweetness of illusion. The bitterness of waking up from my cocaine high, ashamed and alone. Without you. You won't even speak to me, and I cry into my pillow. Just like last night.
And i just want more coke. Not because i'm addicted. But because it's the only place you love me.
