K, I’m NOT sorry I exist

After 213 missed calls, she decided to answer me with the most casual “Hello” in the history of mankind. While I was bleeding out my liver and nauseating deeply, she was valid to justify “technical glitches” as the reason for the cold shoulder. I think I may be in the wrong reality. What if I was the product of a Doomsday experiment gone south and I ended up entering this strange reality? The truth is more depressing and less adventurous. The truth is that I am a disillusioned idealist who’s let his perceived goodness take the form of every known filter that my world has witnessed. I am in the wrong here, darling. How could my favourite person ever be wrong?

It is strangely easy how a kid catches up on the concept of consumerism and cost based reality that’s offered by our world. I was always he odd exception. The concept of “cost” always eluded me. What could freedom cost? What could happiness cost? What could love cost? What could existence cost? Well, freedom costs blood. Happiness costs memory. Love costs senses. And existence costs soul. I came to realize it the hard way. I think all artistic consciousnesses realize it the same way — after losing either their soul or heir very existence. What I wouldn’t give to be without a soul?! What I wouldn’t give to adjust to the materialistic constraints of the fast paced world?! I don’t look down on you. Instead, I envy you. I wish I could ever be that simple. I really do, baby. I do, more than you’ll ever know.

The curse of a surrealist poet is that he’s bound to keep up with this mundane reality, while his soul surfs the unchartered waters of this multiverse and his mind is occupied with romancing the unknown. His crisis is his inability to feel satisfied by any reality, because for him everything exists and doesn’t exist simultaneously, not unlike the artistic manifestation of Schrodinger’s cat. Well baby, I am guilty of being this abstract voyager too. I am guilty of thinking a lot. I am more to be blamed for feeling more than thinking, love.

I am sorry for thinking that people are more than people; momenta are more than moments and events are more than events. Yet, I am sorrier to the kid inside of me. I am sorry I exposed you to injuries of gargantuan proportions. Love, your fingers were never “just fingers”; they were so much more; they were the brush strokes that brightened up each of my days, with different colours everyday. Your big black doe eyes were my source of time- space continuum, because they were so other-worldly they reminded me of a strange warm cozy place, somewhere in the centre of the universe. The mole above your right lip was, to me, the smallest of the Aleutian islands or the manifestation of the most distant of stars. Your lips, as pink and juicy as they were, were no less desirable than the Apple in the Garden of Eve. I could picture your hair as a cascading realm of miracles, guiding lonely sailors like me. I could always laugh about that nose of yours; how it stretched like a nosy rodent and yet I could write a thousand verses in its praise, none of which would be false. And darling, that mind of yours; that mini universe of goodness and godliness that you had between your ears, was the most human part of you. How do I live without these things? How do I treat these things as ordinary? How do I bind myself and you to a contract while I’m loving you?

Babe, I am not an unreasonable man. I am not unknown to the realms of reason and the life of scientific inquiries. The shadow within me is cold, unfeeling, unloving and unforgiving. But K, my soul is not. How could I reduce our bond to a contractual paradigm? How could you not feel the weight of the universe I lift for you? As the philosophical heathens would say, “Why could you not care more?” Yes, I’m irrational. Yes, I’m bad, I think. Why couldn’t you see it? Why couldn’t you love me nearly as much as I do? Why is my perceived sense of idealism too burdening on you, baby?

I am caught between the devil and the deep sea. The cost of this existence will be my soul. If I choose existence, I will have to numb myself with drugs, fake promises and bubble moments. I would be a tool. I would let my darkness command the unfeeling cold demon that lies beneath. I’d be killing the kid. I would be destroying the surreal prism that lies beneath. It would be painful initially; after that, it would just be numb. If I choose soul, baby, I’d protect the prism. I’d save the kid. The reality will not be that bland. But my K, the pain will shred my heart. Your coldness will freeze my breath and the only way out will be popping a million happy pills at the same time, because the sick don’t belong in the world of the healthy.

I am running from one end to he other, hon. I am drifting in the hell of my own creation — a Hell that Dante would be proud of. I am my own Satan; I am my own demon; and although it seeks unlikely, I am my own saviour. How do I live, baby? How do I live in this simulation where you can’t love me and I am too sick to do something about it? How do I live when the love of my life can’t care? Yes, I have more questions than answers, but you could always cut me some slack because I’m perhaps the last of my kind here — a dying surrealist.