I no longer have a point of comparison, because the mind, despite our best efforts to replay lovely memories, mists away what we cherish. It doesn't mean that I don't still cherish--I do, but the object of affection has been missing for some time (it feels like years, even though it's not), that I can no longer remember the way he smells when I hug him. Or have the sensation of my hand on his leg reverberate to my mind.
It's distant, like either I or all of my memories of him have become encased in a glass jar. I can see my longing, and carefully identify it, but am numb to the full threshold of its wreckage.
I'm not sure if I'm grateful or even more sad about this. Both, I guess, at the same time. I'm on a seesaw alone.
I'm glad that I can't remember what it felt like to have panic/anxiety attacks, even though that was as recent as earlier this year. I'm very glad for this. But I've developed other tricks to keep my heart from hurting.
Even though I deeply wish that one random day when I come home from work or class (soon) or am just lazing about in my apartment, I hear the buzzer ring and he's downstairs, his arrival, unexpected because he wanted to surprise me.
Even though I desperately wish that I could come home and find him waiting on my little stoop, I know this will never happen. It is difficult loving someone so much (and being unable to control or help it), especially if that person does not devote, in his/her love, a full capacity to delight the person they love. It doesn't mean that he doesn't love me; it means . . .
I'm not going to make excuses; I don't know what it means, but I shouldn't make excuses. I just wish it. Ardently so. Sometimes, my ardor builds up to the brim, and I explosively sob in the middle of the night, seemingly out of nowhere.
It hurts, and though I try to suppress that hurt, it escapes. I am inconsolable, but I'm also okay.
Mostly, I try not to think about it. I don't try to forget, but I try to keep my mind blank, to focus only on my tasks at hand. Calendar & to do lists. Projects for myself. Reading, and relishing in the rare episode of True Blood or Mad Men. Escapism is difficult when my tastes are so specific and judgmental that I can't stomach most of pop culture. So books it is.
I don't ever say anything about this to him, but he usually calls at night, before he goes to bed, and that means that I'm woken up between 2 am and 5:34 am nightly. I don't complain because to go for 20+ hours without seeing him (after days and weeks of not seeing him) and without hearing him, I'm happy to hear from him, even if he's sleepy voiced, or the conversation lasts a minute. It's all I've got, and probably not enough for me to keep the glass jar off of the memories--not enough for me to keep treading in the tide of longing and loneliness.
Rocks to sand, you see? I'm not being pessimistic; this is how it is. I can do my best to fight it; I send my care package, letters, pictures of myself in random places of NY with food, or doing whatever it is I'm doing. I'm thoughtful because all I do is think about him in all the things I do.
It's miserable sounding, but mostly I don't think about it, because it's second-nature. I promise I'm not pathetic.
I want more than anything to stop feeling. To stop it. Just make it disappear, go away. So I can feel lighter and be free of it. It wouldn't solve my problems: I'm lonely with and lonely without, I know this. But I don't want this to own me anymore.
I don't talk about it to other people--I guess I'm still complaining about it here, but even then, I feel like the full hilt of my obsession over this remains mostly an iceberg.
Holding my breath. I want a wave so big and insurmountable to crash into me that I am lifted and pulled and rendered away--swept, you see. I want consumption.
I know I deserve . . . what I deserve. I say it aloud, hopefully a consolation to myself; I tell myself to be patient. To drown myself in a flurry until I get or don't get pulled from the trough I create.
I can create the thing which consumes me. I can do that, have done that, always do this.
It a terrible thing, to want to be solely dependent entirely upon yourself only and at the same time to want to be consumed and entwined with another. It makes me hate myself.
I try to pretend it doesn't exist. I try to not care if he doesn't call; he hardly ever emails me back or responds to texts. This seems like a minute thing; but it's death when you write to another, and they never respond, no? Especially if you invest yourself into whatever communication you send that way--because I pour myself completely to the person I love. A consumptable. Except I don't know if I'm consumed. There is no acknowledgment, return of ________.
I tell myself, I've gotten used to this. This can't bother me anymore. I have nightmares, and I cannot rip this thing from me.
Even keel means that while it is great that I no longer really dwell on the past--regrets about previous lovers, friends, loved ones--but I can also no longer be excited about the promise of the future. That perhaps the days and years ahead of me are only filled with more of the same of what I endure now. This is uninspiring.
So then, drudgery? NY drudgery is not so bad. I rather like the life and nest I've built. It's neither brilliant nor wretched; I eat a lot of ice cream, though.
I can't shake the feeling like I'm waiting for something. What am I waiting for? Love? No. I know that I secretly want him to come--to be here with me or, to just, send some acknowledgment or some indication that he is plagued by the same ______--anything, anything, anything. Just to keep the nothing that I do have, aside for a moment.
That would be a bearable lightness. I want that tide.
Did I cling on so hard that I am holding onto an idea, the burned impression left in the air beneath my arms? Am I living with loss because I carried it with me, constantly? This is a terrible and sudden realization.
I want abandon, not abandonment, even though I don't want this, I want to feel so full with a feeling that I want a wedding, I want all the things I don't want, because I want to love and be loved just as I love. I deserve this.
-------------------
Let's talk about today. Today I got an email from a semi-stranger, thanking me for our conversation, and what it meant on his life. It wasn't dramatic or creepy, just thoughtful and nice. It's the little things that make your day.
I had to go to Columbia to pick up my course assignments (so far, only classes Tues/Wed, but I'm trying to get into a class that's Monday nights, desperately). But when I got to my student mailbox, there was no schedule, and the boy next to me, said, "Yours isn't there, either?" I must have mumbled something in accordance.
"What genre are you?"
"Poetry," I said, probably aloofly.
"Me too." At this point, I took initiative and went into the main office to inquire on both of our behalves (behalf? behalfs? ahh!)
We were told that the advisor wanted to meet with us to discuss our schedules personally, so we chatted while waiting. He lives in Brooklyn, originally from Huntington Beach, CA, but hasn't been there in four years since he's been in school in West Virginia. Besides, he hates all the 'bros' from his hometown. He then gets points in my book.
He's nice, and I remember that one of the main reasons why I love school is that it's full of people who are my kind of nerdy--he talks about Marie Howe's recent book of poems, which I haven't read, but his face gets really excited talking about her poetry. (I get that kind of excited in my own way, too.)
Today I met my first poetry fellow. His name is Keegan, and he's not-too-friendly, and he's definitely not pretentious or arrogant, only a little disheveled.
So today is okay. Despite everything that I lose, or am tormented (secretly, icebergly) with, I get to meet people. The sun rises, burns sometimes, there's some wind, and maybe autumn is coming, but I get to eat ice cream; things are okay.
Lose something everyday, you said. Today I lost the sensation of it. Shelving's begun, and I resist and let go at the same time.
It is my ghost. You are here and not here, and maybe could just be a logical explanation.
I have--
I had to go to Columbia to pick up my course assignments (so far, only classes Tues/Wed, but I'm trying to get into a class that's Monday nights, desperately). But when I got to my student mailbox, there was no schedule, and the boy next to me, said, "Yours isn't there, either?" I must have mumbled something in accordance.
"What genre are you?"
"Poetry," I said, probably aloofly.
"Me too." At this point, I took initiative and went into the main office to inquire on both of our behalves (behalf? behalfs? ahh!)
We were told that the advisor wanted to meet with us to discuss our schedules personally, so we chatted while waiting. He lives in Brooklyn, originally from Huntington Beach, CA, but hasn't been there in four years since he's been in school in West Virginia. Besides, he hates all the 'bros' from his hometown. He then gets points in my book.
He's nice, and I remember that one of the main reasons why I love school is that it's full of people who are my kind of nerdy--he talks about Marie Howe's recent book of poems, which I haven't read, but his face gets really excited talking about her poetry. (I get that kind of excited in my own way, too.)
Today I met my first poetry fellow. His name is Keegan, and he's not-too-friendly, and he's definitely not pretentious or arrogant, only a little disheveled.
So today is okay. Despite everything that I lose, or am tormented (secretly, icebergly) with, I get to meet people. The sun rises, burns sometimes, there's some wind, and maybe autumn is coming, but I get to eat ice cream; things are okay.
Lose something everyday, you said. Today I lost the sensation of it. Shelving's begun, and I resist and let go at the same time.
It is my ghost. You are here and not here, and maybe could just be a logical explanation.
I have--
