“What the fuck are we supposed to do now that we’ve wasted our youth?”
None of us were so far gone that we didn’t know where this was headed. For us, it was more of a fucked-up survival mode. The co-dependence had started to take its toll and I could tell it was almost over. Half of me wished it would continue, on and on, repeating and spinning in infinity until my earthly body conceded and released what was left of my heavenly spirit, if anything, to explore the consequences of my time here on our wonderful blue planet; I was addicted to the chaos and hoped to live in it as long as I could. The other half of me was relieved that the end was in sight, the self-destruction nearly complete. The tug-of-war that had been raging had finally begun to move toward the latter. I was quite looking forward to the long-awaited deep breath I could finally take, my head being above water for the first time in years. I couldn’t count the days spent longfully gazing at the shoreline but refusing to put oar to water in any attempt to return to the place I once knew so well; but it was nearly time. To be sure, I was never worried, a feeling I’m certain was shared amongst us, about what would happen after we crash-landed back to reality. I knew, since the beginning, again, something I feel was mutual between us all, except for Alyosha, that we, without the production of a formal “goodbye,” would never speak to each other again. Instead, we would look back on this with a very unique and singular combination of fondness and disdain saved specifically for circumstances like this. Many people have an “adult” enough disposition to look back on the missteps of a misspent youth fondly and with an eye towards the lessons learned. But, because of the depth and severity of the fucked-up-ness of this all, we would be afforded no life lessons, no fond remembrances, nothing but the raw emotion we probably still haven’t grown up enough to digest fully. There’s certainly a part of me that will never recover from, or condone, the way I behaved during those years; and I’ve the scars to remind me, should I ever hope, and be willing, to forget. I have a distinct memory, one of those moments I’ll never forget, though I doubt I would recognize the girl I “loved” who made these comments, even if she was standing next to me at a Portishead reunion tour (her favorite band to fuck to), of asking her why she was covering her body with tattoos. She simply and succinctly stated “It’s to cover all the bad memories.” I hope, someday, to do the same. Tragedy might be universal and unavoidable as a human, but great tragedy, the kind of which is said to inspire great art, is hard to understand; and even harder for those involved.
As Dostoevsky once wrote: “Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth…”