I observed his silent movements. He made the most noise when he did not speak at all. the most anguishing yet fascinating thing about him was that he could slip into the spaces people left gaping open and somehow remained obscure.
I watched people ignore him. I watched them make fun of him. I watched pain pulsate between his temples and become laughter. his heart was like a vacuum stuck on reverse so that everything that was sucked in got spewed out with the same violent force it had been sucked in with.
I watched him get angry
I am the one who sucks the venom out of the wound, but I have nowhere to spit it out. so I swallow. only I never really swallow. I watch.
I started writing pages of poems about love for him but I wonder now if it was not just a pretentious infatuation. I was convinced it felt like some form of love. It was irritating how he thought everyone was drawn to him all the time. People did not really see him through the clouds of their own confusion. If they did see him, they would stumble first on his brokenness and then the absurdity of his blissfully detached attitude. It helped that he was constantly smoking weed, leaving him blurry eyed and nonchalant. I watched the struggle.
When I think of his religious convictions, it seems to be laid out for you, Christ died for you, because you are a worthless sinner, you must work to redeem yourself in his holy eyes all the time. So it is terribly convenient then, to screw up your life and blame it on the devil, isn't it? We argued about many things.
When a soul chooses a body it may not recall the intense attachment that this experience can bring and if the soul is old perhaps it reconsiders life in the flesh upon remembering. It is unbearable to think of losing the treasure of all these kinds of companionship that are offered on earth.
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