By the end of the year we will have known each other for six weeks, dated for six weeks, and been apart for six weeks. That's three sixes, and maybe we were cursed from the beginning.
He wanted to make me more emotional, less neutral. I don't think I've held the same feeling for a single day these last three weeks. I cried over his photograph, I cried over his notes, I cried over "Fix You". I'm shattered because I haven't got anything to hold together for. He lifted me from desperate lovelessness. I wanted to be stable because I thought he needed it. Does he remember, "I can't imagine breaking up with you"? That rips me.
Rachel, you thief. The first time he ever mentioned you I accused him of love. Isn't there anyone else for you? I wish you would die, but I wouldn't kill you. I have this sinking feeling that I'd probably like you. Do you have those feelings that tell you exactly where you need to be? Like me and London. Does he remember me, staring at the jet planes, my voice cracking into a sob, saying I'd be a beggar on the street if it meant going back there? If you fell in love with my town, it would still be big enough for the two of us. Why did you feel you had to take the only other thing I've needed that badly?
He's the voice inside my head, and it's so scary when I hear it slipping out. I think I need to control myself, but I don't trust what I think anymore. That's got something to do with not writing for two weeks, not touching my guitar for even longer. I'll get back to it. Maybe I'll discover some sort of love for it, but I doubt it. I wish he could be my religion. I wish I could stop him from ever saying he's not worth my time. I know he doesn't really mean that.
What's my biggest flaw, Alex? Superficiality? Materialism? Compulsiveness? I know yours. Watching your back and your hands in that practice room - that's how I know you're worth it. You fled because you said you were embarrassing yourself. I know the secret ways you wrench your own rusting rivets. You may make better beginnings, but you're a quitter.
As life gets longer, awful feels softer,
And it feels pretty soft to me.
And if it takes shit to make bliss,
Well I feel pretty blissfully.
If life's not beautiful without the pain,
Well I'd just rather never ever even see beauty again.
Well as life gets longer, awful feels softer
And it feels pretty soft to me, yeah oh.
- Modest Mouse, "The View"