Fuel to the Machine

August 7, 2012 § 2 Comments

I have told no one but you that I’m publishing this thing. How’s my conscience? I fear the judgement of someone who thinks Herself should be old history, and I suspect everyone to be that person, because I’m in denial of having already made that judgement of myself. It’s a fair one–if you believe I’m not over her. You’re smarter than I am. I saw her and got a face of denial pie: Nothing Ive been telling myself since she left rings true. But why do I deny this truth? Do I have to be ashamed of forgiving myself and trying to apologize to her? There’s an irony at work that I’m ill-equipped to untangle. There’s the hope that she at least no longer thinks badly of me, but that becomes the hope of getting another chance; there’s the thought of her forgiving me, but then there’s the dread of being forgotten; there’s knowing what I want and knowing the impossibility of getting it: The proportions are volatile; I couldn’t possibly equate them better. All I really know is that the product, confusion, is fuel to the writing machine.

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§ 2 Responses to Fuel to the Machine

  • I’ve come to believe that writing about Herself or Himself is natural. When they leave, they leave a part of themselves behind – children, a bad taste in your mouth, a longing, a loss, regret, anger – you can’t get away from it. My “Himself” left me because he believed I no longer trusted him. It was amicable, but that didn’t stop me from crying my eyes out. Now, I rarely cry, and that is usually reserved for a good movie. My new partner (now of 25 years, much better for me) hasn’t filled the hole that he left thirty years ago. He lives about 40 miles away, and every time I need to go to his city, I fear that I’ll bump into him (now married with 2 grown up kids). I can’t help but feel he was my perfect potential mate. The fear of seeing him now is still as strong as the desire to see him.

    That is the nature of the beast. Much of my writing is about him, or an idealized version of him (or us). The only vestige I have left of him is the muse, and I embrace it with my whole self.

    You’re not alone.

  • Dion Burn says:

    Herself gave me the reason to write, which has helped me grow away from her as a potential mate (though the hope may always be there) and toward her as another lonely person seeking someone other than me. She was once my muse, but now she is (almost) ordinary and real, but somehow just as desirable. I know that fear and hope of seeing her again. Do you know what you would say to Himself?

    Thank you for joining me. I hope to hear from you again.

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