2004-06-17 at 12:16 p.m.
It's funny how many things can sting once you've been hurt, how many small things can become insults. It's funny how you don't even know the totality of the things that have hurt, you don't know that I am keeping a mental tally and that if I could collect all of this hurt in a bucket or a trunk, i could bring them to you and place a dozen crates at your feet and offer what you have done to me all wrapped up.
I explain to myself that for the first time in months, I am seeking uncomplication in my life, a quiet glow of simplicity, yet my curiousity overwhelms me and I go to bed with the what if wonderings.
Because I was saved once, I am always hesitant to think that I am worthy of any more good fortune. So I ask for nothing today when I say it to you, steady and decisive. I don't yield to the hope of a miracle. Short, quiet, and final, we end a conversation we started nearly a year ago.
You are unwilling to deal with the full force of my anger and I am unwilling to assuage your anxieties by surrendering my feelings. The uncertainty overwhelms me, the wonder of whether I will be able to say your name and think clearly of your face from seeing you that day, or the day before, or whether emptiness will loom over what is now a "magical" relationship, a great friendship. Or will the ship on the end of both these uses of language sink?
There's a lot you can do with it, really. You can sit on it, let it keep you warm, sleep with it, nurse it, place it under your pillow and find it right where you left it the next day, travel with it, get support from it, write poetry from it, let it be your muse, try to lose it, see a therapist about it, make a cd with songs about it, make a cd with songs about trying to get rid of it, let it help you find your words when you have misplaced them, let it muddy your words when you have misplaced the ones you want, it can help your body feel like it's moving faster than possible, it can make your body impossible to lift from the bed, it can be your funny friend, a seductive lover, or the door around which you must now fit yourself.
... my love is too sanctified to have thrown back in my face ... shange
I'm always amazed by the mind's capacity to remember, what gets burned into the remembering mechanisms.