I miss you so much. I guess I half-expected to hear something from you today, even after everything, even though I'm almost certain you hate me in some way now. I wish I could forget you somehow, forget how much I loved you and you loved me and all the days and hours and moments in which that love was so clear, almost palpable. There are a million memories I want to at least put in storage, to be accessed later when they don't hurt to handle, when their texture of intimacy and delight aren't so cutting.
But there are no storage units for such things, and even if there were, I have too many boxes to store, and they're too heavy to carry.
I've thought a million times about emailing you, calling you, writing you a letter, sending you a package. Even the notion of showing up at your door has crossed my mind, albeit fleetingly. But I can much more easily believe that you dislike me now than that you've forgiven my behavior in November, which was reprehensible in many ways, and it certainly seems more likely that you still believe that I never loved you than that you look back and see that I did. Given that, and given that you (and pretty much the rest of the world) don't hold on to emotions way past their expiration date the way I do, I'm sure you're not pining for me. You don't think of me at night in that space between bed and sleep. And really, I'm glad, because it's miserable and pointless. I hope you're fine and that you find what you need.
If I had something more than I do -- more courage or more certainty -- or perhaps if I had less pride, and less of a need for the end of these feelings to be somewhere in sight, I would email you instead of posting this in my journal, where it's doubtful you'll ever read it. But I can't change what is, in terms of what I do have and who I am, any more than I can change what was between us. And although I'd like to be able to say that, given the ability to make changes, I wouldn't do so in either case, that's just not the truth. Honestly, I'd love to be the kind of person who was able to make some kind of peace with you, to write to you and be sure of feeling okay with your response, or the absence of one. And I would love to go back and fix things in November so that we weren't so wholly estranged now. If only I could erase this pall that's been cast over three years, way past its rightful jurisdiction.
If only. I would love. I wish. I hope. I hope we can talk someday. I know that you don't have the answers I need, but that's all right -- in truth, the questions I have are such that only I can answer, and it's time I started finding my own answers in general. But I love you. And I miss you terribly. I'm reminded of you ten times a day, and I ache to remember Harry Potter's voice, going to the casino, playing laser tag, the bag of Gummis you gave me, a million pieces of life, fragments of our once-was love. I'm so glad we were together, Laura, and I'm so sorry it's come to this.
Thank you for everything.
How about we just leave it at
we loved each other as much as we could
each of us did her best to make things work
and they couldn't.
and for my part, I miss you so much I can't breathe when I think of you, and I will love you forever.
and I'm sorry for the bad things, and thank you from my heart for the good things, and that's it, and goodbye.
Having received at Pomona two years of high-quality, culturally sensitive education, formal and otherwise (that being laid atop the foundation of thirteen years in Piedmont's excellent, if somewhat one-sided, school system), not to mention possessing an expansive brain virtually overflowing with oft-traveled neural pathways, I very rarely make gross generalizations about groups of people or engage in rampant stereotyping. This is the combined result of: original lack of prejudice/the cleansing properties of the mental trip through a car wash that is education; a subconscious filtering out of any prejudicial impulses that may be present in deed, word, and/or thought; and, the mop-up by my conscious mind of whatever ignorant assumptions may have escaped prior attempts to squash them.
However, there is one sweeping, umbrella-esque statement that I am perfectly willing to make, a statement that some might consider to be an unfair generalization, the product of ignorance and closemindedness, etc. To those people, I say: if you're not for us, you're against us, and are therefore part of the group of people I'm about to denounce, and are therefore probably too stupid or otherwise unable to wield the powers of speech and discernment without the hands-on aid of one of Us. Or you're deaf, in which case I'm cool with you.
Ahem. Anyone who doesn't like The Beatles falls, without question, into one of the following categories:
1. people who have never heard the music of The Beatles, or, because of age (under, say, 10), are unable to make intelligent (but basic) judgments on pieces of high art, such as the music of The Beatles
2. those who have suffered grievous head trauma resulting in brain damage, have undergone lobotomies that affected their powers of judgment, or have very low IQs
3. those who are totally deaf
4. people who have utterly horrid taste in music, i.e. none.
Notice that I have stopped short of making any unrelated and thus unfair sweeping statements; for instance, I could have extrapolated from the heading of category 4 and said that, in addition to having laughably horrific taste in music, people who don't like The Beatles are also virtually certain to have bad taste in clothes, fragrances, wallpaper, and general lifestyle. Which is not a huge logical leap. But I didn't!
If you like The Beatles, I imagine you'd agree that people who don't are either uninformed, unexposed, literally infantile, brain damaged, clinically idiotic, or completely devoid of any sense of what constitutes "good music". Or are deaf, in which case we have no beef with them, right?
And if you don't like them, then you either are very stupid, have no taste in music, or simply don't know what you're talking about, and in any case, we'll ask you to please keep your music collection away from our ears and your wrong opinion about The Beatles away from our children. Or you're deaf, so we're cool if you are.
From now on, this will be a friends-only journal. As if it hasn't been of late. But from this point forward, unless I have an annoucement I wish to make to the world at large, it'll all be friendsed.
Resolving myself not to give a damn about my readership and to write whatever the hell I want in here.
Wake up like swimming through a heavy fog and attempt to recall the facts that define life.
I'm going home.
Turn on "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" and dance with joy as I strip and pull on new clothes. Glimpse ink in window reflection and smile.
I'm going home. And I love you even if you end up not loving me, and life is amazing in its many permutations and surprise endings which are really new beginnings. I feel like my coffee cup was filled instead with joy; I've never floated like this before.
I'm so happy. Give me a huge hug when you see me.
- Mood:out of my mind with excitement
Charlie: my mom's tattoo appointment has been moved back to 5:30; after that, we have to have The Talk, so it might be like 8:30 or 9 when I'm free to hang out. Is that cool?
I shall call you when they're through with me :P
With the aid of the wonderful Natalie, I've created a new journal, adnarimz
, in which I'll be posting poetry and such. It's probably not worth adding adnarimz as a friend; I'll end up posting everything in here anyway. I just wanted a way to put poetry up on a page I felt comfortable linking in my AIM profile.
The first entry's an oldish poem, just to get things rolling.
I've decided I'll just stay up for the rest of the night and pack. Better to get something done than lie awake for a while longer, sleep for two hours, and end up feeling dead tomorrow. I'll still feel dead, but it will be that stomachache dulling deadness of prolonged awakeness rather than the dragging exhaustion that comes with a couple hours of sleep. And I can always catch sleep here and there tomorrow. [5:42 edit: I feel fine!]
People who are coming to visit me this year:
-Charlie (at least twice each semester)
-Natalie (and Julie?)
I'm playing Guster's Lost and Gone Forever album to accompany my packing efforts. Ah, the essence of time at Pomona. Perfect.