I deleted your number today. I should have a long time ago, but letting go and learning to just breathe and be and not ruminate— it takes time. I haven’t seen you in over three years. I moved across the country, got very lonely, got serious help when I made serious plans to kill myself, saw the inception a pandemic, stayed lonely, and moved back across the country. And I have been back for a year and eight months, without so much as a word from you.
I am never going to know why you decided to cut me out. It’s become less and less difficult to deal with that fact, with this reality. That difficulty will continue to diminish. I will continue to live and to feel intensely. The world is devolving into a sicker place than I feel it ever has been, and this weighs on me, but I am still pressing forward. Doing my best to just keep on living. This feeling of relief, from finally ridding myself of you— like the sensation of prickling leaving the body as feeling returns to an appendage starved of blood— means I am still moving.
“Listen closely to what’s still moving: the hum that never goes away from me.”
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