I can say that I've been the idiot. Of course, the fool, over and over, but made only by my doing. My persistence, my optimism, and love.
It's not silly.
Until recently, I could no longer carry the weight. That it debilitated me, rendered me miserable in my NY life. Incapacitated me. Depressed with no buoy.
And in different circumstances, I probably could bear it; it could be surmountable, but the killing thing was its indefiniteness. How all I saw ahead of me was the tedium of days spent in suffering, and trying to abate the pain, and its aftermath. Days on end.
I do not think he understands. I know that he loves, and wants me to come back, not literally, but to bridge that distance in the way that I have been.
I cannot do it if I only gain pain. He cannot answer my questions; I am not happy.
Apathetic. And what's worse, is that of course, of course I love him. I remember still, all the moments, lit in that shade that pinches my chest. How brim I felt. I want endless days of those moments. Not this drowning.
It hurts now, even knowing what I know--to hear his apathy, his motions on the phone. That he too, would let the reins loosen, slack, and disappear in the dirt.
Somehow, even in my pathetic place, I still wanted him to save it, to save us. For once, to take a risk and let everything else fall away.
More than anything these past (almost) two years, I just wanted him to be willing to give what I give.
I've already cried about it too much already. My chest has been taped back into place, my body, wired to something else. I look east, dreaming of snow.
I hate that it still hurts, his continued state--now, mirroring my apathy. His voice, long dead, passing through not cold enough air to reach me. I feel like he's laughing at me, except his lips are closed. Waiting for the words to fall so he can remind himself how he was correct since the first day.
This hurts me, to know I've failed. How things turn back to how I've failed, I've done wrong, am doing wrong.
I just want to be happy. I just wanted something pure. Why the dogged, constant insurmountability? Why am I punished? Why do I punish myself.
Escape means that I have damaged myself beyond death, and suffer through it to make sense of something incoherent. To mend an alien thing, to teach it to nurse, and walk, and wave.
I wish I couldn't remember. That it would not wound me in memory. Wound me now, lashing at my leaving.
