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One perfect weekend. One magical feeling. One love. I donít love often. Iíve been closed off for years. Iíve pushed the whole world away for as long as I can remember. I didnít need anyone at all, until I found this one and now Iím not sure how I got by without this. My heart is hers, handed over on a silver platter. She holds the piece of me that keeps blood flowing throughout my body. She has no idea. The world has no idea. The things I would go through to be with her in the end are unfathomable.
I saw a broke down tow truck and thought of dad. The car it towed represented him. The truck, me. I will get fixed while the car will be shoved off to the place where dead cars go. Useless cars. Heís dead and thereby useless. And it makes me laugh that this topic would have been more deep and profound if I werenít so damn happy. I could write sadly, but it would be lying and I have to first get used to all of this first. The writing bug strikes but I squelch it because I donít need it.
I had given her my heart. Perhaps too soon. But it really felt safe. She felt comfortable to me. I donít fall for people. I would rather be alone than risk getting hurt, hence the years and years alone. I would never be with anyone at all unless I felt sure. Iíve only felt sure one other time in my life and that girl is long gone. I fucked that up long ago. I donít look back, only ahead. Being alone doesnít scare me. But another heartbreak terrifies me. Maybe Iím due for one though, itís been a while. Damn.
A whisper in the night:
Itís just another impossibility.
And I think good, Iíll make it through this like the rest.
The music pauses on its own accord, hair in my view moves. A cold touch not seen and I know he is there.
So many connections made throughout life are not breakable, and some not amendable. Separated by life and death, still we find our ways through the thicket.
Sometimes you just
I knew. Will we make it through the first of many? I wonít try to be perfect, and I expect nothing but the same from you.
I love my Jehovah witnesses. I like knowing that Iím not the last surviving moral human being. I like they interest they take in me. They strive to make the world a better place, even just one person at a time. I miss Zane. He hasnít come by in awhile. I think today that was his wife, but Iím not sure. I almost asked how Zane was. Heís the one who introduced this whole world to me in the first place. Not that Iím about to change my religion for anyone or anything. But being taught the bible is nice.
Maybe I canít really handle the unwarranted jealousy. At first I thought it would be cute, having someone worry that I would leave them for someone else. To me itís preposterous. And I thought it would be plain to see that I have no one in my life, and specifically no one in my life who I would want to be with nor do I have any interest at all of finding anyone. Three years I spent alone with nothing but unrequited loves. Could those times have been easier than this? Will we make it through this in the end?
With the peculiar name alone of Clarence Wigglesworth, no one bothered to inquire of
the middle initial. Obscure and unknown, much the same as Clarence himself, despite enjoying his own name. His Pisces nature ran rampant throughout his being. Dreamy and creative. The whole nine yards. Undoubtedly the kind of boy a girl would want to take home to her parents. Heíll blush if you mention the scar on his eyebrow, and heíll coolly run his hand forward over his short hair if you compliment his tan. Neatly disheveled with highlighted tips, his hair receives a religious monthly cut.
From well kept to unkempt within hours. Catching Clarence at an opportune time is always a rare occurrence. Good moods are spent alone communing with nature not wanting to be bothered, while the brooding moods include silent lamentations and not wanting to be bothered. Thereís a sort of cusp to which he occasionally falls. If you pick him up heíll be the Clarence you once knew, before his father died. You wonít even hear how he should have been a better son. To him his whole life could be different. It so easily might have been, if they werenít stubborn.
Itís not unheard of for a Pisces to consistently feel their clothes touching their skin. Clarenceís dry hands stand out against his soft body. Slightly obsessive hand washing and cold winters donít mix well. Add in his constant awareness of each limbs proximity and you have social awkwardness to the extreme. Matching his peculiar name is his peculiar posture and general body movements. Either swinging the arms wildly or leaving them stiff down his sides, there seems to be no happy medium. He is nothing like a pendulum that can rest in the middle. The top of the hour reigns.
Clarence reads Salinger bimonthly, uses redundant clichťs like their going out of style and swears like a drunken man realizing heís been in a gay bar all night. While only taking calculated risks in the presence of others, alone heíll perform death-defying acts. His passengers buckle up and heíll drive like an 85 year old man whose license should have been revoked 20 years ago, but alone heís weaving in and out of highway traffic during rush hour. Then on a warm Sunday afternoon, one might hear how he ran a red light that morning in front of a cop.
But rainy days are his favorite. To Clarence there is nothing better than spending a quiet day at home knowing the rest of the surrounding area is at home moping around because they canít go outside. Alone is what Clarence does best; he wants everyone else to feel the same. He relishes the fact that people holed up indoors creates peaceful neighborhoods. Then thereís the enjoyment of cold iced tea on the back porch while listening to the patter of rain on the gazeboís tin roof. Certain things bring back serene memories of a love, a life, that once was.
Death. It comes for us all. Some sooner than others. Nothing profound there. Nothing. Take me, please. Escape, refuge. Depredation of my morals and beliefs. Had they even existed before they were taken away? Did I miss something? Where are
? I fall backwards. I cave into the doctorís couch, wishing to seep between the cushions. Hidden, staying to listen to other peoples problems. I'm not okay. Excuse me while I simply disappear. Look away as I slit my wrists and fall to the floor dirtying your new shoes. Have you missed something? Maybe we're all missing someone. It's him.
If love were a shadow then Iíd be warm as Iíve always been alone. But if the shadow were figurative then I would assume secretive and not fully visible or recognizable or even distinguishable. Distinguishable from what? From you or I, or the air we breathe and water we drink. If love were really a shadow, then I would know that Sylvia Plath knows what Iím living right now. She, perhaps, invented this entire feeling. I would know that our days were never meant to cross. If love were a cruel joke then I would laugh and say
Okay. Ummm. Can I say fuck it and just try to revert to the times during which writing crappy poems made me content? Are those days lost? Frustration is an eleven-letter word that does not capture the intense intent intended. You know the situation is dire when writing a hearty seven-page paper causes elation. 1689 words in no real specific order. But handing them in on Wednesday will be a terrific feeling. Accomplishment is good. Writing is better. Having written is best. Sometimes living feels like a dream where death and love are constantly evolving. Still I want them both.
He wishes he could do it. Tell her to take the dive. Push her to the edge and then throw them both over. Their bungee cords would create enough ups and downs to make anyone dizzy. But they wouldnít care. He would tell her how that morning he envisioned a red carpet leading to the ultimate leap. She would say it all makes sense now. Together with locked eyes, they would finally understand. The journey of the great Amazon River is not always smooth. Their cords could snap, but they may not. The flood of raging water only intensifies love.
Iím just so tired and you fail to understand. I am not superman, no matter how badly you want me to be. I am not superman, regardless of how often I truly think that I am. I will never be. Just like I will never be enough. I havenít the energy to endlessly dote my affections onto someone without getting something in return. It seems pointless to work this thing out, perhaps. This is a weekly event and I didnít realize it would be like that. Itís too much, my dear. I love you immensely, but Iím not worth it.
As fast as you appeared, you are gone. I will see you once more, and that will be that. I refuse to play into your game and be one with your exes who all want you back. Iím sorry I couldnít pretend to be jealous. Iím sorry Iím not insecure like you. Iím sorry that I trusted you, for reasons unbeknownst to me. I guess I just figured that if you cheated I would simply leave. It wouldnít be hard. This isnít so hard. Itís just unfortunate. But sorry, I have bigger things to dwell on. Heartache is nothing new.
Maybe itís my fault for falling too quickly and her fault for letting me feel as though it was okay to. She is leaving me. Perhaps I will forget that perfection does exist and I can happily resign myself back to being okay with being the lonely old professor with 21 cats sloshing red wine over papers Iím correcting while yelling out wrong answers to jeopardy. It paints a pretty picture, but so does she. How can I make her see that Iím the most honest person in the entire world? She needs to believe that I wouldnít hurt her.
Would you stay if I said I want you to leave? You are a good actor. I am gullible. I believed all your lies. I bought into them and you. I invested more than I could afford. Losing isnít a big deal, but being made to look like a fool is. I should have left the first time you made me look stupid. Jealousy is not as cute as it looks from afar. It has a putrid flavor and a lingering aftertaste. If you have no trust, you have nothing. Even still, I donít think you really want to go.
Itís all too likely that you will end up reading all of these words. I donít know how I feel about that, but yet I write it all anyways. These are my thoughts, my feelings and the rest is pure creation. I leave it to the reader, always, to discern reality from fiction. But itís still always me. Clarence is me, Dade is me, Camelot, Jenifer and even Adele, theyíre all me. Lithe words drape the scenery leaving spectators thinking they know, but they donít really know. Not even I know most of the time. Life is a guessing game.
I stayed despite the
see you next Tuesday
remark. I told them downstairs about it and now they call me
the c word.
I suppose I may never live this one down. And itís all thanks to her. Never have I felt like a bigger fool. I receive the ultimate put down and I shrugged it off. She never even apologized. Besides which, how can you very well hate someone one day and then love them later that night? Real people arenít like that. So one of the two is a lie. Love or hate. Tell me which is true.
She has no trust. I canít fight forever. I wonít. Watch. Itís no big deal. I wonít be sad this time. I cried enough. Three strikes and youíre out, that is what Eric said. Eric is law. No one wants to see me hurt. I gave her a full-hearted second chance, then I gave her a half hearted last chance. I donít chase girls. Iím not a relationship seeker. Itís not my thing. I was bored. You are a girl. It was something to do. I have better things to do.
Youíre still waiting for me to fight, arenít you?
I wish we could go back to the beginning. We need a do-over. We deserve it. How did everything get so messy? Can things ever be the same again? Have we lost it for good? Will you stay? Can I make you? When will you be nicer? Will you ever trust me? Never once have I given anyone ever reason to doubt me and my intentions. I have not once lied to her. Iíve been nothing but loving and faithful. She only sees what she wants to see, believes what she wants to believe. Her perception of reality is askew.
Silver tarnishes. Remaining sediments wash away. Always Iíve been alone. Youíre not listening to me. You never have. Were you ever really there? Here? Where? I miss you and you have no idea the extent. Or the things I would go through to get back, back to you. You back to me. Us back together. This is not my life. Take it back. Havenít I written that before? Today my mom asked if I ever wished it were her instead. What do you say to that? No, mom, Iím glad my father is dead. What exactly was she looking for?
You mustnít fight when inspiration strikes. You mustnít question word choices or the veering of topics. Fingers work on their own volition. Sometimes I wish I had someone whom I could call to ask for a hug and have them then come over at their earliest convenience to give me what I need. I have no one and nothing is convenient for anyone. After the last one, I feared that I turned asexual. Then I met Her, fell on my nose but was held up by heartstrings. When mentioned to the doctor, doctor says
I told you youíre not asexual.
I feel uncomfortable in the presence of workers doing something for the benefit of me. Walking to and from class I saw a scene. I would guess that one of the two men was new and the other was the boss. They drove around the grass on a go-kart thingy of sorts. The boss was telling the new guy what needed to be done as I walked to class. I avoid eye contact. On my way out heís working alone. Again avoid eye contact. He is busy beautifying the lawn so that I can have something nice to look at.
My hair falls out and reality slips free with each strand. I am not stressed, not like the stress I have known, yet the physical symptoms remain. Fragments of life fall to my feet and like the ashes of death, I kick it all away. Not now, I say. This is not the day. Maybe with a morphine drip of my own, maybe I could die a similarly painful death. I feel bad for him and the way he had to leave. I feel bad for me and the way I had to leave him. He left me. Shambled remnants.
Eighteen months. This time last year the pain still coursed through my body, as warm as the day you left. Only days before a name had finally been placed upon your new home. My new sanctuary. My own separate world where grieving remains acceptable. Pound the grass to try and raise you out of your sleep.
Wake up, daddy. Wake up.
Eighteen months. Does it feel as long to you? Some days it feels short, like eighteen months ago came to pass only yesterday. I cry out to worlds unseen. A lifetime that never existed except in our barren minds.
There stood the smell of rain captivating the airwaves of which we inhaled simultaneously. Should one ask for more than this moment? As transparent as the grief parading past, my love jumped out the window. Caught in the soft enveloping moist grass, as damp as my bleeding heart on the day you left. Carry swift melodies past days break and into the next but always the last. Listen to the pounding from below, noises bring secret messages of all that we lost. Never live it down, never forget, never let go. Move on with yourself. Depart from my lonely company.
Let me see you and Iíll share it all. Words held over time accumulate tumors. Linger in cobwebs, drive me mad. Heís everywhere, yet no where. I miss him and he knows it. I sense him, he knows it. He gives random signs, I disregard most of them. Itís the intangible that holds the most weight. Things mysteriously turning on, things opening, and the dog with no thumbs leaving my room while the door was shut. Swiss army knives. Perhaps I would yell at him, just once more, if I found him. The worst is forgetting that he ever was.
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