Until I Forget

December 14, 2012 § 5 Comments

With time and reflection, Herself grows ordinary. If she is still fascinating, she no longer fascinates. If she is still attractive, she no longer attracts. What she hides—what I wanted from her—she can keep. Once the challenge I set myself, she’s now only the futility. In love, what isn’t given isn’t true. Pursuit is a lie. She is a lie too long denied. What does that make me? The recovering liar? With her ordinariness grows louder the lament over wasted…just about everything. But what use, the keening? Ordinary strips from her the emotion I’d given her, takes back what was mine, the gift not accepted—and rightfully. I became the man she’d thought I was. I wanted her to be wrong, but I could only prove her right. Behind and ahead, I see clearly. It’s right in front of my face I can’t make out. Of the past I see that at best I held no interest to her; and at worst, following a disdain I did not respect, aversion. Of the future, which is near enough, I see a life as separate from hers as hers has always been from mine, and I won’t care. Of now, I cannot quite accept either vision. As always, knowing is not being, not until I forget what I know.

What Would I Know?

December 11, 2012 § Leave a comment

Neither a fool nor a revisionist be. Who am I now to judge what I’d been then? I can’t say I’d not been in love, only that I had been so with the wrong woman. I can’t, either call myself a fool for not having known, but pride will call me names to dissemble from its pain and deny I’d been in love. Why is it so easy to be embarrassed and ashamed? What martydon is being served? What apologies are left? And whose forgiveness is left to ask for? But moving on won’t be accomplished so pragmatically. What I know and how I feel are each a hand of a different body. Neither nor both can affect a solution. In the face of that impotence, it’s easier to ignore the impulse to effort; if the restraint is as stressful as the effort, it is at least more effective. Just a theory. What would I know?

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.

Better the Comforts I Know

July 28, 2012 § Leave a comment

Comfort is escape, but from what? At what point is it a denial of responsibility? What is the responsibility? It weighs heavily but has a big thumb on the scale. Comfort does not signify contentment of a real kind, but a buffer from the pain of coping with without. I look for comfort in myriad things, but in none do I truly find it, for futility ever leads the pursuit. The horse is dead in the gate. Contentment is not an accumulation of comforts. No number of good books I read, good movies I see, or amount of music I enjoy totals what I am after. In fact, I sometimes think that their absence will reveal the peace I seek, but I fear the void. It’s a theory I can’t bring myself to test. Better the comforts I know….

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