[slniecko]

One time, when I was super drunk and staring at the spinning ceiling of my dorm room, a strange thought came into my head. While thinking about him and the inevitability of his departure – mixed with the despair of feeling too much when time wasn’t enough – my mind needed a way to make myself believe that it was all real. That I didn’t somehow make it up. That when he’s back home, sitting on that damned flight, it’s not like he never existed. It’s a matter of heart more than it is a matter of the brain, I’m completely aware – but for some reason, that night, I needed a way to prove to myself that what we had was factual. That it wasn’t just my brain playing tricks on me. I won’t be foolish to think back to it in a way that matters, because it did matter – and how do I know?

Well, the only thing my mind took as proof in that moment weren’t the clothes he left behind – not the light brown sweatpants and a white T-shirt that smelled like him so much I slept in it for two nights straight – or the pictures and videos of our drunken endeavors in my gallery. It also wasn’t the tales I’d tell or the diary pages soaked in the pain of my existence for the last few months. No. What my mind decided to take as proof of our closeness, our “relationship” – even though it wasn’t ever truly defined, how he said himself a whole year later, randomly wandering into our Whatsapp chat to catch up on life after  the pains long disappeared – it was the simple fact that we spent all 24 hours of the day together. 

It’s a funny concept, I get it. A silly one. I told my friend about it once, and she didn’t really understand – and I can’t blame her. It’s a strange thing to think about, one you can only ever really come up with when your system is running on last drops of vodka mixed with iced tea you had that night. But it’s fairly simple, really. We spent each and every hour of the day together. And I don’t mean at one time – just minutes and hours scattered across the 24 hours on different days, our bodies in each other’s presence.

Me and him usually spent the time frame between 4 pm to midnight, sometimes even 2 am (depending on my schedule next day and whether I had to wake up for my 8 am class) together. It was our usual time. We would meet at his dorm room and watch a movie before we would slowly fall into each other, our bodies finding comfort in each other’s touch. 

The only night we spent together was on our trip to Bratislava. It left me feeling bitter, unwanted and rejected – for it was the night I wanted his body more than he wanted mine – and even though I still find it hard to move on from it, at least it added to the 24-hour time span. It was proof.

We didn’t leave the capital until 1 pm that time. The missing hours were added on the day he had to fly back home. We never did much, but at least we were together. It was real – our connection. We weren’t meeting just in after hours. I meant more to him than the timeframe between 4 pm to midnight.

I hadn’t thought of this concept for a long time. It only appeared in my mind again a whole year later – a stupid coincidence, another pisces man I let play with my heart. But this time, the realization shattered me.

No 24 hours. Not even a full 12. We spent many evenings together, spilling secrets to each other on abandoned playgrounds and behind roaring clubs, but the timeframe was always the same. Nine pm to 2 am. Five hours of the 24 we have in the day.

I never saw him in the daylight. We never went to each other’s dorm room, never cuddled on the coach. We never went to Bratislava. We didn’t take the train together. We never took that damned polaroid. There’s no proof of me ever being in his life – other than the blurry selfies in my phone. For all I know, in his life, it’s almost like I never even existed.

I have no proof of our closeness. No factual information I could point my finger at. He never introduced me to his friends. He never even asked me out. And you know what that means?

Perhaps, it never really happened. It never really mattered, and

I made it all up.

[slniecko]

At least the last time I fell in love, I could’ve romanticized it for myself. Right person, wrong time. Star-crossed lovers. The one that got away. Not enough time together, wasted potential. All of the buzzwords – the meaningless, empty words to give more meaning to a connection that never possessed such depth to ever deserve them.

I could’ve dealt with it better. Out of sight, out of mind. No contact. The rage, the disappointment, all channeled into something – art, a night out, a failed rebound. All that emotion had somewhere to go. All that hurt was able to be apologized – because he wasn’t here, and it would make no sense to get attached to someone you’re gonna leave behind, so he was never in the wrong. He didn’t mean to hurt me. He was nothing but honest with me, respectful enough to think of my heart. We just never saw eye to eye. Sometimes, I’d blame it on the language barrier.

It’s hard to romanticize something that felt so real. Something I can’t seem to let go of despite knowing I’m worth so much more. It’s hard to romanticize the hurt when it feels so humiliating – the way I put up with it, the disrespect of it all. The lack of effort. The empty words and invitations that never followed through. The drunk words never translating into sober thoughts. It’s hard to romanticize it, because this time, I can’t make excuses for him. I can’t even save my face.

I’m just enough to kiss and use for validation, but never enough to care for. And it’s true – I keep looking for affection in all the wrong places, seeing the best in people who don’t even dare to look at me and know me beyond the surface. I love too deeply and I love too easily. Some would say I love better than the rest of them – and perhaps that’s why it hurts so much.

I can’t romanticize a lover who won’t commit when it’s all in his control. I can’t blame his conscious decision on fate. I can’t be mad at life for “having to be this way”, because it’s a result of our decisions, a direct cause of our mistakes.

Perhaps both of us are scared of the same thing, just the way we deal with it is so vastly different. We both fear people leaving, and so he – the ever-so-sweet prototype of a perfect avoidant – never lets anyone close enough to miss their presence while I, the foolish one, let them take and take and take and never give anything in return, just so they’d never wanna leave me in the first place. And it’s pathetic. Both leave you feeling lonely anyway. You chase both away with flings at bars and flirty texts and subjecting yourself to people who give you the tiniest bit of attention, but the thing is, you fail anyway. There’s no easy way to protect the heart of a yearner.

And here I am, romanticizing him anyway. Thinking I know more than he’s shown me. Reading into actions, reading in between the silence from our last conversation. Here I am, believing this time it’s gonna be different. Thinking the ending of the book we’ve been writing will change, as if the pen wasn’t in our own hands and we hadn’t planned out the plot together the very first night we met. Here I am, letting him use me while trying to make myself believe our intentions align. Here I am, falling for tarot readings, twisting and tossing in my sheets at night, meeting him even in my dreams. We always communicate better in them – it would bring comfort had I believed they were real, in another dimension, in another reality, and in another timeline, maybe we worked out.

But  the thing is, they’re not.

None of it is.

It’s all an act, and despite knowing, I let myself foolishly fall for all of it anyway.

[slniecko]

A love letter to my uni town.

X. Sometimes I love you, sometimes I hate you. We’ve known each other for some years, and there’s still so much that I can learn about you. We’ve known each other for some months, semesters, life cycles - and I know that there’s still things you can teach me. 

Sometimes I love you, sometimes I hate you. Sometimes, that feeling blends into one and creates a natural, unidentified blend of thoughts and feelings tied to the countless moments and experiences that only you make me taste. That feeling is the most intense when I’m the farthest away from you. When I’m home in my bed and I protect myself from everything that you make me look straight in the eye. When it’s exam season and I’m thinking about everything that you brought to me this semester. When it’s dark outside and I’m staring into my phone, looking through the cuts of those moments in my gallery, frozen forever, while I’m mentally counting over the departure times and looking for a train ticket, just so I can feel your energy again and as soon as I can. That feeling is the most intense now.

That feeling is tied to memories from the first year. To the emptiness in my heart that let itself known every day that I spent alone in the halls, learning my notes and thinking about what I’m even doing here and if I’m not an imposter, trying to make everyone, but most of all myself believe that I’m meant to be here and I’m good enough. To the emptiness that felt like a knife in my heart in every moment when someone around me laughed with their friends, reminding me that only I am alone, left behind, stranded, like always. Reminding me that it’s too late - everyone already has friends at university and no one needs new ones. I’ll never start over. It’s tied to the feelings of disappointment, feelings of failure, which I didn’t know until then. To the feelings that come suddenly and take away all your illusions - take away everything that was making you in high school you. They take away all your feelings of satisfaction and uniqueness when you realize that there’s suddenly tens of people around you that are doing better than you are. And that those people have always existed, you just didn’t know them - but you were never special. That feeling ties to moments in which the people you were trying to grow a friendship that was supposed to last “forever” with, leave. One day, you won’t be living with your classmate anymore, bonding over bad slovak rap, and you’ll realize just how much you miss it every time you see her interact with someone else - because those friendships were seemingly worth fighting for. The one you shared was never enough. It ties to nights in which you can’t sleep. To the dark room 505 that’s silent only when everyone’s asleep, but even this quiet is easily filled by the loudness of your thoughts. It ties to the feeling of emptiness when the laughter ends and you realize it’s only an echo of something that you’re trying to achieve your whole life. It ties to bitter tears that wash away in the shower because you can’t show your emotions in front of your roommates, despite knowing one of them for 8 years. It ties to the nights in which you’re alone in your 3-person dorm room, because X is not just you and your best friend’s town anymore, and you’re not anyone’s priority anymore. It ties to the phone calls home when your heart is racing out of your chest, trying to run back to the place from where your mum’s voice echoes - maybe at least her hands would take it into her hold. Maybe at least there, it would find its place - like when you were little. It ties to your third year and the moment in which you decide to “live your life to the fullest”. To the hangover after a night full of drinking and thoughts of which the strongest one is the worry that you’re changing into your own father. It ties to train rides back home when you’re listening to music that’s supposed to help you forget, but instead reminds you of the moments of the week even more - to that feeling of emptiness in your chest when you realize that you gave your heart to someone who’s not gonna hold it, but will let it fall to the ground so it shatters. And in the meantime, you’re just falling, falling, falling.

It also ties to new beginnings. To the belief that maybe this year will be different. To the childish spark in your eye, to the silence at 4 in the morning when you’re standing in front of your dormitory, waiting until the doorman lets you in after the sins of the night. It ties to the silly belief that Halloween must be cursed - just because you let yourself make very bad decisions every year around the same time. It ties to the same feelings that resurface after 3 years - what if I’m not good enough and what am I even doing here? And what comes after? In a year? Two? When you won’t be here anymore and won’t have anything to fall back on? When you can’t talk your way out of it and say you’re not ready for the world yet? It ties to the boys in clubs that you let question your own worth. To warm hands and passionate kisses that you mistakenly explain as depth. To trauma dumps at midnight at empty playgrounds - which is a little ironic, since you’re both just tall kids pretending you’re someone you’re not. To the thought that you’re growing close with someone, but then you realize you were only used - for your big heart, but because of your own naivety. It ties to disappointment, to a karaoke bar full of empty souls searching for their place, to ringing in your ears behind its walls. It ties to throwing up in bins or behind trees in places that you were maybe never supposed to be in - in places you were maybe never supposed to visit, had you loved yourself a little more. 

But X, I love you anyway. Sometimes, I’m so sure of it. In moments when I laugh with my friends so much that my stomach hurts and my eyes well up with tears. In moments when I walk along dark streets and watch the Christmas lights, realizing that even after everything - after the ghosts that I see flying across the stranded nooks that only me and the people I let see know - it didn’t make me hate you. I’m convinced I love you when I look back, and most of everything, I’d love to go visit those moments again and freeze time - just so my limit with you wasn’t getting so short so fast. I’m sure of it when I meet with my friends in a different place every week - but also in places that we know so well, in places that are ours. I’m sure of it when I smoke in front of the university and feel free - feel that all of this is my doing, that without all the bad, I wouldn’t be here and wouldn’t be able to appreciate everything it cost me. I’m sure of it when I wish for something when I smoke my lucky cigarette and even let the loneliness hug me. I’m not afraid of it anymore. I welcome her the way I am - with empty arms, ready for what it’s gonna teach me this time. I love you when I start calling my painful memories “lore”, when I realize what you gave me more than what you took from me. Because there’s not a lot. You gave me freedom. Self-sufficiency. The ability to live alone, to choose, to spend time with myself, but also with friends. You gave me an experience with love, an experience with my own sexuality. You taught me that it’s important to talk about my feelings. That there’s not a lot of real people out there and I can’t trust everyone. That people will forever come and go, but the ones that are supposed to stay (even with their stubborn, cold support), will stand behind you forever. You taught me how to smile at moments that, at the time, felt like twisting the knife in my gut. You’ve shown me true nostalgia. You’ve taught me that autumn is really the prettiest, and that after every bad day, there’s an amazing sunset - X’s own, strange apology. I grew up in you. I achieved something in you. I learned a lot about myself in you - even though, after everything, I’m still searching for myself. X, we only have 3 semesters left. Be how you need to be - I’ll never hate you for it anyway.

note* - the town's name was replaced by X when posting to protect my privacy

[slniecko]

I experience disappointment so deeply that I have a hard time forgetting about it.

It’s a tale I’ve known since I was a child. I still remember how it felt when I wasn't at the top of the class for the first time. Or when I got my first bad grade. I remember the feeling so vividly I almost experience it all again whenever I think of my bachelor’s thesis. Or when I think back to the moments from elementary school – when my brother refused to take me out with his friend when my own circle abandoned me, or when my own friends decided from one day to another that I wasn’t good enough to keep around anymore. 

Since then, I’ve had a hard time with people leaving. It made me fear silence. The experience has forever shaped me into someone that dreads the moment I get close to someone – despite needing, yearning for it so bad – for the fear of them leaving. 

I find it hard to let go. Of disappointment. Of feelings. Most of all, of people. I grew up in a house that’s always on fire – throwing harsh words at each other and then pretending everything’s alright the very next day. I grew up in a home that rarely feels safe. I grew up in a small flat that made me scared of every loud noise. I watched my parents threaten each other with divorce more times than I can count – no wonder I’ll let you treat me like shit and then always forgive you. That’s what was passed down on me. It’s in my DNA.

Did that make you see me as an easy target? Did you feel it – my love for being used? My yearning to have a purpose? Was I just a placeholder for your boredom? Sometimes I think knowing your intentions – seeing into your head, picking apart the pieces and observing all the background noise inside – would make me feel more at peace. To know why you did what you did. To see if you ever truly cared. To see if I ever mattered.

I used to have empathy for you. “Not even my friends know this,” you said one time, sitting on a bench at 2am, drunk off your mind like an open well of self-pity. Neither of us have ever had a good example of a working relationships in our family – the consequences very clearly a bit different on both ends. I thought you trusted me. And for all it’s worth, I wanted to be the one to hold you up when things got hard – such a shame you have a habit of falling out. “Disappearing”, how you called it once. Another time, you’d get mad at me for joking about those same words – asking me if you should do just that, leave me alone, abandon me, and my heart screamed no! Please! Don’t. And I think you knew. Still – the closer I got, the farther away you ran. 

I hope you find peace with her. I always rooted for you to get better – not in a cheesy, cliche “I can fix him” way. Something inside of me just decided you were worth protecting. My eyes can always see the best in everyone. Maybe it was my major that made you open up to me that night – a little birdie told me you have a history with girls that go into psychology. Maybe it’s your own way of asking for help, yet never saying the words out loud. And maybe, just maybe, you never wanted help in the first place.

Maybe all you need is validation. Attention. Maybe it wasn’t personal, and it didn’t even matter. Maybe it’s not personal and I don’t have to analyse the features of her face. Maybe I don’t have to compare myself to her. Maybe it’s totally fine that she’s short, cute and blonde – because it was never about me in the first place. Maybe it’s not even about her. Maybe it’s just about you. You and your weakness.

But still, I can’t help but wonder – since you seem to hide a lot of stuff away from her – does she know your nephew’s name? Does she know about your demons? Does she know the plan for your next tattoo? Has she received the same videos I have – you chasing down the little boy playing with dinosaurs, or feeding him his lunch? Does she know how you worry about him? Have you ever texted her at 1 in the morning on a cocaine comedown, scattered all across the place and sadder than ever? Have you told her how you overdosed? Does she know how lost you feel? Has she heard the tales? Your firsts, your fears? Have you told her that you don’t even know who your real friends are anymore? And is she one of them? For someone that calls herself your girlfriend, you seem to keep her in the dark.

And I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough to make you clean. 

Maybe she can be.

But I’m starting to realize that it was never my job to keep you safe in the first place. It was never my responsibility to make you feel better. Still, I took it anyway. I woke up every day and hoped that you’d get better. I thought of the lingering glances, I remembered the words. ‘I miss you’ lied between your teeth, phone calls leading to nothing. 

And what was the point anyway? 

I was never enough for you to try any advances. I spent countless nights analyzing if it meant you had more respect for me – perhaps more emotion, something that would make you stop and control yourself to only ever press your lips into mine, the only way our bodies, our souls ever got to connect – or if you never even liked me at all. 

What does she have that I don’t?

Or what do I have that she doesn’t?

I could sit and talk badly about her for hours – but that would make me too much like you. Maybe, there’s a better question to ask – what is it that you are lacking?

It happened the way it happened because I would’ve hated it anyway. I would’ve never trusted you. You’re too loose in the wind for anyone to keep. A Matty Healy rip-off, the one they write songs about, never truly moving on. And maybe I’m too fragile – or maybe you’re too mean. Which one is it now?

How foolish of me to keep holding on. To keep hoping. Turns out, all I needed for my closure weren’t explanations. There’s no point in a last conversation. Past me would maybe even feel sorry for you, but the harsh reality is, the truth always sets you free. 

I can’t even turn you into poetry. Our roots have rotten, the construction of our relationship left abandoned, bricks taken back, foundations knocked to the ground. The site is clean. Finally, I found peace. I just wish I didn’t have to lose the last thing I held on to in the process – which is the respect I had for you.