I am crying about the elusive nature of love, the impossibility of ever having someone so completely that he can fill up the hole, the gaping hole that for me right now is full of depression. I understand why people sometimes want to kill their lovers, eat their lovers, inhale the ashes of their dead lovers. I understand that this is the only way to possess another person with the kind of desperate longing that I have to take Rafe inside of me.
I mean, for most people, the phone calls, the dates, the schedule that a couple creates, are all a means to an end, a way of organizing time to maximize the pleasure of each other’s company. But for me, the time we spend together is about nothing more than furthering that time; every date is about planning the next date and the next and the next and the next; every phone call is about figuring out when he will call me again, what time, what hour, what minute. Everything is about holding the ideal in place for fear of ever going back to that lonely little world I used to live in.
Think, instead, of the girl herself, of the way she must have felt right then, of the way no amount of great poetry and fascination and fame could make the pain she felt at that moment worth suffering. Remember that when you’re at the point at which you’re doing something as desperate and violent as sticking your head in an oven, it is only because the life that preceded this act felt even worse. Think about living in depression from moment to moment, and know it is not worth any of the great art that comes as its by-product.