Building new facades: University and Old St. Augustine - Jacksonville, FL

On my mind: How marriages don’t always end in happiness, and how we (oh. duh.) only hurt the ones we love.

How the happiest of people can only sustain for so long. How, like the needling tingles of a mild withdrawal, even the sensations that are supposed to be pleasurable start to slow into annoyance. Get away from me, don’t touch me, but don’t worry I’ll be back in the morning.

Until one day it takes an extra day to get back to normal, to regain perspective and remember that you love this person occupying your bed.. until the moment you pause and consider that the action of remembering implies the action of forgetting. Implying the terrifying realization that sometimes, however infrequently, you forget to be in love with this person standing next to you.

And how I, in all of my obsessive self analyzation, can catch these damaging thoughts in their tracks, can reason my way out of this terror, introducing the idea that my partner has melded into me and obviously will bear the brunt of my self loathing from time to time. That there are days where I hate myself, with toxic little hate droplets oozing out onto whatever is closest to me, as if not only I am to blame for this unrest but you are too and it’s all our fault and I hate everything but of course that feeling diminishes. Because it has to, right? Because I can look that feeling in the face and tell it to shove off, and then next thing I know you’re saying something cute and my funk bubbles away and I know that I was just being silly so let’s go listen to music and be silly together.

But right now it is the opposite scenario that hangs heavy on my shoulders.

The one where he forgot that the ooze is impermanent and let it spill over everything, watching with Hamlet’s eyes as the black poured a seamless cover onto all of the things he used to love, hiding the light that used to gleam back and forth. A thousand tiny mistakes lead to ruin and a thousand tiny bubbles of seething resentment turn into the kind of slow irrational hatred that becomes impossible to outrun.

Done. With a capital D.

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