personal blog: simon

five hours, ten minutes, and thirty-four seconds. my ground hasn’t stopped shaking.

wandering the streets

‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry…’ Jacob’s words bounce in my head. words I cannot but abhor and I’m spiraling out of my axis, unaligned.

I need to cause destruction.

leaving the aquarium in silence, didn’t make me settle as Jacob treaded behind mute. the remorse we have experienced five years prior. the pit of our fallout.

I made it all about me, whereas, Jacob was the one in the critical state. injured. in need of medical attention. in need of help. but, I made it all about me.

“I can’t,” I shouted. “I can’t.”

I couldn’t lose my shepherd.

‘two wrongs can’t make a right.’ Jacob was right.

I wasn’t able to be his angel and I trotted out from the ward, meek, a coward, an idiot.

when Jacob needed me, I fumbled… and ran. I always run.

he somehow always manages to be my rock. I couldn’t be his… and Jacob never blamed me. he only apologized for faltering, for being broken, for a moment unable to my hero.

and then he found his hero.


I’m weak. I’m not brave. I’m shattered and incapable of fixing with missing and unsalvageable pieces.

so I need to destroy.

I need to do damage, so I can continue to be wretched and awful because in the hush of the moment, in silence, in my empty apartment, I become unhinged and when the darkness creeps in, the shush of my father’s finger on my lips to keep quiet, to listen, to be rewarded with words and punctuations that flood my frontal lobe. all those memories and distinctions fill my mind with mud and it’s easy to fill my mind with my father’s mud. it’s always my father’s mud.

‘I’m sorry.’ another of Jacob’s apologies and with the current high of self-disgust rattling, I need a crash. I need a downer.

I need my body to be bruised and ripped, in order for me to skip a moment and paralyze my thoughts, keep my father at bay.

the overcast settled over the city as a permanent resident, and the evening is darker than usual. I step off the subway and make my way to the streets to an aimless destination, only to avoid going home.

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© simon whittle — second act