Thursday, May 13, 2010

Warning: Freeway ends in 15 miles.

Don't worry. Game over. If you can't end it, I can end it. The screen really is broken. I'm fucked up, my heart is broken, it really is your fault, it's not your fault, who cares. Who cares. I don't need you, I don't need anyone, I don't have anyone, I have my books and something to type on and pills to take and a plot to fill somewhere in Pennsyltucky.

I was a nice diversion for you-- you helped me, I'm not saying you didn't, I don't want to be hurtful, though I'm your patient and I can't possibly hurt you because I'm just this little rusted wind-up toy that you can fix or fail to fix, or very easily break if you're careless.

You have all the things you want or need to make a full, perfect life, and sometimes that gets boring doesn't it, and isn't it kinda cool to have the weird girl like you and doesn't it kinda remind you how special you are? And you've taken all the necessary precautions to excuse yourself from any liability. You've said very clearly that you don't want her. Kind of anyway. You're not liable. So you can, enjoy each others company, enjoy her adoration, and the stubborn wishes hiding behind recollections of the preceding days.

Now you're saying you have no feeling, except intellectual connection, and it's a blatant contradiction, but you've been very careful with your words, so you ask me to give you specifics, and I'm at a loss.

And today you brought up my expectation, that if there's an attraction, even if it's mutual-- "which it- which... which I don't think is the case here," it must be acted upon, said it's something that we should look at, thus implying that said expectation is, stems from something unhealthy, could be damaging, is unrealistic. And I understand that you are married, and have a family, and have probably felt attracted and connected with other people (though I know, not in this case) before and it has been mutual and though you would never act on it you could both appreciate it for what it was, and see the value and the beauty in just that. You have about twelve personalities after all, I'm sure some of them relate to different people.

But, I am not. And for me, to be, as you say, infatuated, with someone for, what is it now, October November December January February March April and, get in line, May, the better part of a year, is different than a little diversion is for you. And I am not calling our relationship a little diversion, and I know it's not just that to you, and I know that you genuinely care, but on some level, that's what it is. Right?

Though I can appreciate it as that. I can see the value and the beauty in it. I can. It's just that right now, it ISN'T that. To me. Right now. And you know it.

And then you compare my feelings for you, to your feelings for this woman, that you were going to MARRY, that left you for the wrong reasons... Right? It's just a strange comparison to make, in light of the situation. It's just not the comparison, not the comparison that would paint my position into the corner it's in. It's not the comparison about being infatuated, not in love, but infatuated, with someone who never had any interest in you, with whom you ultimately fostered a healthy, platonic, mutually beneficial and beautiful non-physical relationship. THAT would be the appropriate comparison. Wouldn't it. Not the love of your life. That you never spoke to again. Which makes me think that maybe you just wanted to talk about it with someone who would understand. And I'm honored to be that person to you. And maybe I'm just reading way too much into it, but you're casting yourself as the person who left for the wrong reasons. Telling someone about a broken heart is one very good way to secure your place in theirs.

So it makes me think, you want to be here, you want to be here for me, you want to help me, you know I have to get over you, you don't really know how to facilitate that beyond what you've said already, so though you're aware on some level that you're just drawing me in, you can't stop it, and you are just waiting for me to reach my breaking point and leave, and maybe come back, and maybe not, and I'm drawing you in too, but you like it, and you're sick of it, but you like seeing me, and you're just not really doing anything and you are busy and busier and the more stressed you are the more your mind wanders to a ranch in Arizona or a spaceship cruising through the stratosphere, or being a priest like you thought about when you were a little kid. Or all the fantasies and follies you could have fostered (by the way I'm sure your writing would have been really good, if you tried it, somewhere other than your psychology papers) and all the doors you've had to shut as you merged into different lanes, down different highways, speeding here, gridlocked there, too pressed for time and concerned over the squabbling in the backseat to pause and listen to the radio and look out the window and see that the clouds are casting giant glorious shadows over the yellow yellow grass stretched before you heading North, into the mountains, that road stretches endlessly you know, it stretches up latitudes into farms, slopes, Bay area freaks, the Yakima valley, Washington wineries, places where it always rains, places where there's always sun, 22 hours a day in the summer, places made of snow, places so beautiful they'll make you cry before you die freezing, jawdropped forever, marveling at the world God made for us to live in. You can't just take off and head up there now can you.

I can though. And I will. And I'll be on that road alone one of these days, radio on, no one squabbling in the backseat. I'll tell you how it is.

I'll write you all about it.


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