So Gone (Ed Sheeran)

Irresistible sin.

   I'd always been fascinated by eyes. The way they held so many things that you could see only if you were really attentive. Or the way it didn't show anything if you didn't want to see anything. It told so much about someone, how they felt, how they were as a person. It told so much about the observer too.

    You could misunderstand the feelings they held, and so it was subjective, the emotions you saw in those eyes reflecting what you feared they might have felt. We could see those eyes and never forget them, identifying anyone with a similar colour of eyes as that person.

   I knew that I paid too much attention to eyes. For instance, I was laying in bed at three in the morning thinking about how beautiful they could be. Another example might have been how I could't stop myself from relating Rose's eyes to hers. Or even how I couldn't prevent myself from looking into them every time I got the chance to.

   I knew I wasn't in love anymore. I still had these episodes where I felt so angry at her for doing this to me, for leaving me alone. You didn't feel rage against someone if you loved them, it was ten times worse than that.

   I was able to make up my feelings about almost everything, thing I couldn't do when my blood was drowning in alcohol. I didn't know if it was a good thing though, because sometimes I felt like hitting my head against a wall until my brain got out of my skull. And that was something you never wanted to experiment; to fight against yourself to stay alive.

    Writing music helped me, in a way. It allowed me a break from all the pain and distress I sometimes felt. All the thoughts battling inside my brain were let out on a piece of paper, bringing a brief peace inside myself. But it could get so bad that lyrics and melodies could do nothing for me. It got so bad I drank again, to calm myself down. It was driving me insane to wake up everyday with a headache, either because I was hungover or because my body couldn't take the pressure anymore.

    I knew Rose saw that. I noticed how her eyes darkened when my thoughts became unbearable or when she understood I had drank too much the night before. But there was nothing she could do, and so she never tried anything since the few hours I spent at hers hadn't helped me so much. It had been temporary. Just like everything else.

   The worst part of temporary things was when you came back into the real world and its harsh reality. When your fresh wounds opened up again, or when you saw your scars again. Indeed, every wound eventually healed but left a scar behind in order to remind you of what you went through. It had two sides. You could either contemplate how you actually survived the fight or you could remember that time you couldn't see the light and how painful it was and somehow could still be.

    I wasn't good with choosing sides. I'd usually just sink back in my helplessness, only going deeper because of the impulse of the temporary break.

   Which led us back to my insanity and how writing music and having a break sometimes made me feel worse than before because it had made room for more negative thoughts.

   I couldn't go on like this. I knew it but I couldn't find anything to stop it. If I had a moment to myself, I'd think and bring myself down. And I had nothing to distract me all day and all night long. There was no miracle cure.

   I got up and took a shirt on my way, as well as my keys and cigarettes. I went outside, and walked. I walked until my legs got weak, until I didn't know where I was, until my lungs bunrt from the amount of smoke they filtered. I hesitated between going to the bar or pass out on a bench when the first lights of sun were seen. But then I saw and understood where I was. Shaking, I knocked at the door, automatically cursing at myself for doing so. I couldn't be helped.