Staring Into The Void


He is empty.

I can finally feel the emptiness, now that I allow myself to really feel.

He speaks, when he speaks, using a weary, litany of politicized jargon.  Very PC, very crafted, very limited. very ‘what do you want to hear’, ‘don’t I sound good and proper and knowledgable and headed in the right direction’?  But the words are hollow and rehearsed and they never change.  A broken record.  An empty vessel.

He thrusts  a hardness into his eyes in order to stop me from seeing the vast space within him that he craves to fill with other people’s misery, with their praise of his good deeds, with their life force, food, fantasy, sex, anything more real than himself.  He breathes the scent of another’s joy and thinks he feels joy.  His warmth is only a reflection of someone else’s fire.  His blood flows to the tightening of someone else’s chest with fear and sobs.   When he stares into my eyes there is no love, and I can see the force of effort he puts in to some hypnotic stare, as if he were psychically owning my existence, as if I should be reading his very soul.  But the reason I cannot read his soul, let alone his mind, is because it is empty, never giving, only sucking into the vortex with his pinprick pupils.

I am trying not to blame myself, to forgive myself for being in this place, in this crazy, empty, loveless marriage.  His parents had a loveless marriage built on manipulation and rage and control. 

So did mine. 

And here we are.

I had hoped for better.  Maybe, if I am more alert, more trusting of my own feelings so I can tell them apart from the feelings of those around me which pervade my space and their vibrations setting resonance in me, if I can discern me from them, I will be able to keep myself safe and still dance in and out with them.  Be vulnerable, pull away when they are dangerous, feel my sorrow, recognize their emptiness and misery and reject the horrific clowns of hate parading around like love.

He spoke of his SA meetings, his work, his progress, and said how it was ‘good’.  He felt ‘good’ about it.  That was all he could say.  So shallow, so barren.  Is that the sum of his truth?  He is building just another shell, a fake, a fraud, a stand in.  This one has a few new catch phrases in its vocabulary like authenticity, or truth, or accountability.  His old ones were communication, fidelity, commitment, and they meant nothing save as a means to charm and wrap up within a veil of glamour, each value an expectation someone else was supposed to fulfill, and, for himself, to resent and act out against such demeaning things like ‘rules’.  He is selfish, and he rages, and he aggrandizes, and he panics if someone calls him on his games by refusing to play, or stands up for their own beliefs.

The similarities with my mother, and my father, are staggering.

What a waste.

I wonder what I do in kind?

It can’t be pretty.

Hate never is.

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