It's been so long since I slept well, the half dreams where I'm talking to Lindsay aren't helping. I can't handle any more talking to people. I just want to sleep, remember what problems I was dealing with before eleven last night.
I've told the same story a thousand times today, heard Martin saying it a thousand times (and really, what is the difference between him and I, except for the love he had for Lindsay). It's like I'm stuck at this aperture where the only focus is her, and by reference myself. The senselessness is astounding because I cannot reconcile it with anything I believe. No god, impartial or not, would kill this woman I have loved just to remind me about death, and to teach me how to deal with it as an adult. I am obsessed with her death: I had to do some serious thoughtwork to stop myself thinking about the moment she died, in my own body. I felt my bones break and the crazed, quick yet agonizingly clear moments of a crash so many times last night I couldn't tell you.
I am a cruel person. My thoughts are selfish. I will not share them in this medium. One I will share is that I wish I could have her boots, as a memento. We have the same size feet. Had.
The relationship net twangs something ridiculous with this sudden ripping of a single knot. It really brings the lines of relationships to light: who is frayed, who is just vibrating, who knew her, who doesn't.
I have a playlist. Altan Urag's Requiem
: Straylight Run's Existentialism on Prom Night
: and from the one moment today when I felt I had dealt with it, the funerary song from the end of Akira Kurosawa's Dreams. It doesn't work anymore though.
The question keeps coming back. I am more in a state of confusion than of sadness, or anger. Why? How could she be gone? More and more it feels like some sick joke. I can't handle talking to anyone about it anymore because... Because it feels like I'm perpetuating this horrible lie? She was telling me how I should" Press the action button to rock your thesis!", just a few hours earlier.
My appetite is gone. I may not be eating much of anything for a while. It just makes me sick.
I keep replaying the times we had. When she and Martin and I were walking to the Pub at The End of The Universe to talk about how to be a threesome, I picked her a dandelion and she kept it. Sleeping in bed, the three of us, her hand and mine met and interlocked over Martin's stomach. Most strong is the image of her fluffing her hair when I last saw her, saying how she had just cut it.
I never realized how lively she was. Martin said to Brian on the phone (so many phonecalls today) how he can't say she's dead: it is the most incorrect adjective to use about her. She and I were going to have a dragon vs. shark fight.
She never got to see my finished costume. I had been thinking of making the tail just for her to see.
Will I ever be able to go to the pub again? I may have to, with the wake and all. But I know I will not be able to sit at the table from that night with the dandelion, when I first had chocolate stout. I feel sad that she never came over much to our new house after we moved. We were all so busy this summer. But when Martin lost his job there was more time to hang out...
That's the hardest part. Bearing his grief too. As well as everyone else I meet. Walker woman's curse, this empathy. But Martin is my life, no difference. But I just want to run and run, it's been so hard sleeping with him anyway after the two nights he spent away, but how can I sleep without him? How do I handle this?
I do it alone. I write in my LJ, like I used to do. Martin went off to the Hawse to be with everyone there. If I can't handle even him, I can't handle anyone else there. Cameron, who called us, has been someone I could manage mildly, but we haven't spoken much beside logistics since he called last night.
I know what dirges sound like. I sang them with my throat through my tears.
But is this incorrect? Am I not feeling this? Am I just picking up on everyone else? A part of me wants to say I loved her like a lover, to belong to this mess of grief more strongly somehow, but I know I didn't. I loved her as a friend. My obsession, could it be from everyone else's grief?
This is why I am writing this alone in my room, and not leaving to talk to anyone for the next while. I need to deal with this alone. But expression is quite important too. Again, why I'm here.
I can't tell if I'm shivering with cold or emotion, and if emotion with which. Altan Urag's Requiem strikes all these chords. (I don't think I will be able to play it again without thinking of her in the future.) I don't know what to say to anyone. She's gone. That's all.
I just want to sleep. Please, let me sleep. Everything will untangle and right itself if I sleep. Let my dreams not be ones of her: If anything, let there be no dreams at all. I need to wake up strong and lively and able to face all the things that are still here. Because, really, it all is: my thesis isn't gone. My classes didn't get hit. The issues of money and rent and food are not somewhere in a...
I don't even want to say it. It can't be true. I want to write myself a story that she just ran off somewhere, was taken somewhere, anywhere, somewhere where she exists yet.
But I know where she exists now. It's in our stories, the remembering. The way the relationship net has come together, from all corners of the country, to recreate her presence even if only for a moment.
She's here. In my heart. The footprint in the sand.
I can't say I'm numb anymore. That would be a lie. But the confusion is immense. If only it would start parsing itself... since I know I can't parse it any further. I've explained everything. Accidents happen. Lindsay is gone. Jess is in the hospital. There will be a funeral. Things to deal with. My mind runs to all the things that are needed to be done.
But I don't know anything at all. Her image in my mind is sheared off, flat now, without dimension. I have been trying to add the demarcation of "this person is dead" to her in all of my memories, and it doesn't work. The sense of revulsion about the dead is there, but she's not the one who is dead. It won't make sense. Maybe ever.
The only thing I do know is that she's okay. That's what all my dreams told me. She's alright with this, somewhere. Or maybe somewhere, it's me being alright with this, this never seeing her again. This tragedy. One way or another- life moves on.
I hate to say these trite things, you always hear them. "Oh god! I'm so sorry. I can't believe she's gone. Life keeps on going. She would have it this way." I want to strike myself for hearing them, for speaking things like them. There is anger, I suppose. It's all directed at me. I am like a little ball of frustration- confusion does that to me. I hate when I can't figure something out.
I just want this to blow over soon, get back to what I was doing, not feel guilty about that either. It would be nice. I could pretend she's back in Europe. Who knows? Maybe that is where she is.
I miss her. Funny how you only miss people when they're gone.
I don't think I can write anymore. It's starting to fray. I'll let this go.