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.


Indifferent Grasp

July 6, 2012 § Leave a comment

I’m afraid to get closer than a flirt, but the prospect excites me. At least I can imagine it would. I want it but have no gauge of my readiness for it. Can I help but be shy about it? Can I help but try again? I will allow myself the reticence and the hope alike and vibrate to the midline–me natural. I want to not want so much as I’ve been asking for–rather, I just don’t want to ask for it (or for anything). When I can give is when I can receive. How do I do that? I want to believe that I’ve grown from all this, but I’m afraid to test it. Time will ace it–that’s me saying it, and even believing it, but compliance is in the hands of my patience, whose grasp is indifferent.

Hollow Victory

February 24, 2012 § 1 Comment

The Letter won’t be sent. It took three long tries, but I finally admitted there was no justification in saying anything more to Herself. I couldn’t admit that with the first two, but I was writing them believing she would not welcome hearing from me, and I could not force myself to believe otherwise. From the outset–the first letter–I was determined to be dispassionate, or at least not accusatory or bitter. My inability to sustain that for even a page told me–thirty pages later–that there was no good attitude that would get that letter written and delivered. I wasn’t through talking, but she was through listening. I am still talking, but I will not solicit her ear. All I can do for her is stay away. That that might prove I’m not the creep she considers me is hollow victory for me.

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