Angels Wear Blue Jumpsuits

Part 14

I've never been one to talk much– unless I have three (not even that) drinks in me. Alcohol seems to give me ADHD and way too much confidence. I like to discuss philosophical concepts and music, most of all. But what I can't open up about, no matter how much I've had, is you.

Sure, I could break down and cry about you in front of my friends and family.

But with tears come questions.

And with questions come my answers and everyone's opinion.

Which, of course, they're entitled to.

But I can't bear to hear them say: "Well, Isla, as much as it sucks, you knew it would end."

And they wouldn't be wrong.

I know I dug my own grave– but that doesn't mean I have to enjoy lying in it.

And I don't.

We live in a small city and sooner or later I was bound to run into you, but surprisingly, I didn't. Sometimes I drove past your company building because I'm a nosy little shit. I see your car parked outside at all hours of the day. I often considered walking in, finding your office and sitting on the edge of your desk until you gave me an apology that I had no right in asking for.

It's an age-old saying, originating from the poet Thomas Gray, often over-used but still true– ignorance is bliss.

When you walked out of my house to your car, unlocking the door but not opening it– I should have locked my own. I should have shunned hope. I should have let your mother's distant advice die along with her. Wondering what your touch and 'I adore you' kisses might have felt like could've plagued my mind for a while, but I'd have moved on from the notion, eventually.

But knowing what they feel like, no longer having them, and wanting them back?

If ignorance is bliss– then knowledge is misery.

The days that pass are dark and empty, like silent, dreamless nights that bring no rest. I develop insomnia and an insufferable habit of blocking out everyone's advice. I try to focus on myself, try to write better words, try to make better kimchi– but what's the point if I don't have you to tell me that you like them? To live for one's self can be seen as both selfish and wise, but no matter how big and bold the I in my INFJ personality is, you make it morph into an E when you're around.

See?

I told you that you alter my brain chemistry.

And with this self-awareness, I analyze the world around me harder. I begin to see that the majority of humanity is deeply asleep. So comfortable in their own little worlds with their own little problems that they can't wake up to see how damaging their narcolepsy is. And for those of us who feel 'awake' in this dreamland- it's lonely. It's unsurprising to me when I read that most philosophers were some of the most unhappy individuals to have ever lived.

But I wonder– were they truly miserable because the more they understood people, the less they liked them?

Or were they just like me: nursing a broken heart that made them question everything?

Why, indeed.

Why, why, why was I so stupid to think that we would work out?

Why is there suddenly so much noise in my driveway?

Why is Arya rushing through the cat door and hiding under the couch?

It's one a.m., I pause the movie I'm watching– one you recommended me months ago– a true story about an American Football team and I'm sorry, but its pacing is trash and I can't watch another minute. Mostly because it sounds like there's a mob outside my house.