It's just my late teens and early twenties I want back, not to see him again. It's this latest virus thats making me feel ultra depressed, its not love sickness. His wife was on the wrong list long before she met him and he walked straight into it. He was always blind to the amount of genuine conspiries behind our life 'choices'. Listen to me, no wonder people think I'm deluded. In Glasgow I knew he was in trouble outside, the back of a car, a group of Fife men, one with a video camera. I was standing at the bar, trying to be indifferent, trying to be what I had to be if I was to become anything in that city. I couldn't do it. I put my drink down and ran out there to put the video camera to its best use as far as I'm concerned, as a blunt instrument. The violence is always a blurr afterwards when its me thats doing it, but during it time slows and I feel like a force of nature. After he'd pulled his trousers back up we sat on the street with out backs against the car, weeping. I said I had loved him, he said he still loved me. Before he left to go back to states there was all kinds of promises, all sorts of discoveries, he pulled is wife off me at least once. He's a soft bastard though, I knew he wouldnt remember a lot of what went on until it was too late, just like me. Maybe he's remembering and thats why he's on my mind so much, there were times we felt for each other like we were twins. Other times I would scream his name and he wouldn't hear a thing. In October 2001 my mum picked me up from a friends spare room, mentaly shattered, starved and so weak I could barely stand, halucinating movements in the cornor of my eyes, people faces twisting to devils or their whole bodies becoming transparent. I stared at objects along the road, still clinging to the hope that he'd 'rescue' me from family, and friends that would rather I'd just slip away. He phoned and described some of the pictures I sent him, the fields, the road, the water tower.
But I dont regret ever turning him down, we were victims and young, our lives weren't our own. He was wild, hungry and social I was dissociated, sensitive and terrified. We didn't stand a chance and it broke my heart on a regular basis that he refused to admit it. His family were incestous and ritualised to a degree that was much more conscious than my own family. They were a coven and he was a gifted child, something to my bled, broken and to feed from. Mine (I think) just took orders. But we had some good times together, drugged up and living in the moment. As far as I know he is still a working, family man but I got the sense that there might be something going on when our mutual friend let me now that he had talked to him recently. As much as I wanted to know I didn't ask, I dont trust our mutual friend that much because he's an ex of mine and no one got that close if they didn't comply.
I wish all those government boffins and nazi scientists had figured out a way of washing away emotions as successfully as they can memories. There's a constant feeling of waiting that will not go away. As much as try and make plans for the future, to think about what I want to be as just find myself thinking about him and the decision I made that when the shit was over, when my trials were done and I was free, I would have him. The world stoped turning for me back then before my hope got broken, I even look a lot younger than I am but for him, time passes.
Well its better to be seventeen emotionaly than six, or three.