Broken Down Us

 

 

Me: “If you knew how many conversations I’ve had in my head where you and I had a tete-a-tete and all came to light. Can you believe that I am still not entirely over you? Who could have fathomed how deeply this comment you made to her would run? I can’t seem to get to the closure part. I keep wondering if maybe we could be meant for each other. I keep wondering. It’s crazy, isn’t it? I have written so much about my feelings for you; I have tried to make sense of why I feel for you still after how you behaved toward me. I have enough examples that would prove to most that I was nothing more than another conquest, another notch on your belt, another confirmation that you can have anyone you want. I can’t whitewash your behavior. And yet, and yet…and yet. I can’t help circling back to you, remembering certain moments, maybe, probably embellishing them with the memory brush that is never entirely accurate. But even when after hashing it over once more I have to woefully conclude that there exists no real indication that anything sweet you ever told me has any bearing in reality, then, as a last resort, as a last cry for understanding, for hope to survive, Lara’s email comes to mind, that fateful email that sent my emotions spiraling  into some wishful universe. Based on two lines she wrote, I keep wondering...despite it all. I keep going back to you, picturing you close to me, hugging me, enveloping me, sleeping next to me, looking me in the eyes, being with me. It feels so pathetic, so pointless, so beyond reasoned thinking, utterly deprived of logic. I am sitting here, a year has gone by, and most of me would bet that you haven’t spent one minute thinking of me, but then there is this tiny part, that tiny, tenacious, stubborn part that somehow keeps resisting inside, that does not want to call it quits, that wants to believe that not all was make-believe like the typewriter, that even behind a comfortable, convenient lie, there lay an attraction deeper than simplistically justified surface vanity.

Is this tiny part deluded? Is it?

Am I hanging on because like that I don’t need to put myself out there once more? Does the diseased part in me seek refuge in a feeling past because it is the most recent, the last emotional upheaval I’ve lived through? Am I just running away and letting this tiny part trigger ensuing numbness? Are you conveniently filling the emotional abyss that otherwise would be exposed, would come to feel unbearable? Why didn’t you let me go entirely? Or maybe, that’s exactly what you did. You didn’t take heed; you did not take care of my wounds, of my sadness, of my disappointment. Maybe that is the closure I need to face. Not a neatly packaged one, not a clearly verbal one, but one marred in silence, in intermittent exclamations that had no follow up, in repeated rejection. What else could I possibly need to move on from your image, from this idea that you are the perfect mate for me, that it is my body, my biological clock that selected you, started ticking when relenting to your advances? You are far away mentally, emotionally, physically. Everything points to you not caring one single bit about where I’m at, what I might be thinking, feeling, doing, experiencing. You are nowhere to be seen on my horizon, and yet, and yet, and yet…there is this inkling that continues to reside inside of me, this notion, this wanna-be intuitive sense that persists in whispering to me that this is not done, that we are meant for more than what was.

How can I know whether this little voice is telling the truth? And what am I supposed to do with it? I have put myself out there; I have made my feelings known. And you, in customary demeanor, responded with delay and in an inconclusive manner, as always…as always. I’m not your bait to play with; I am not some dispensable being that you can have fun with once in a while, I am not your whetstone against which you polish your ego proclaiming smugly: 'I had her too.' I want to believe that what transpired between the two of us was more than just superficial shenanigans, that it had more substance than that. I want to believe that we introduced our true selves to each other, during these very revealing 3am conversations that say make us open, vulnerable, honest. I want to believe that we had that, and that it changed things. It certainly did for me. I know that I can imagine from here to Timbuktu whether these late-night talks impacted you in similar ways than it did me. Judging from outside evidence, it surely does not sound like it. I guess, all that I have left is the idea and Lara’s opinion that you don’t lie when you feel shitty, that when you are sick, the truth comes out the way it tends to come out when under the influence of alcohol. But, even if it had come out truthfully at that time, we are talking a year and a half ago. A lot can happen in a year and a half. In most people’s lives, there are one or maybe more lovers that replace the image of a former one that’s fading, irrevocably, irrefutably fading. There is nothing tangible that I can pin my hopes on that happened closer to today. I haven’t heard from you in almost a year. Tiny part, why, why? Why bug me? Why quietly insist that there is something left to reap? I don’t see how I can hold on, and I don’t have any more avenues to explore, any more methods to trigger a truthful response, a reaction from you. There are too many possibilities tugging at your sleeve that are enticing, interesting, entertaining enough to keep you occupied, engaged, brimming with success, and self-glorification, sensual accomplishment. I don’t know what I am trying to gain from yet another round of frustrated writing. Maybe just my desire to be in whichever way, shape, or form close to you, to engage with you if only on a psychic, imaginary plane. It’s sad, isn’t it? Maybe my writing all this down keeps anything from happening because if we were to meet again, I’d have to admit to these lines. I may have to read them to you one day, and when have I ever seen it on television, or read it in a book? It feels broken, poor of spirit, weak of mind. Most likely too intense, intimidating, a reason to run for the hills.

Can I just say though that I miss you?

In a mind that flat lines only to be jolted into a death awareness by a rapidly and irregularly beating heart beat, you are the shining star, you are the North Star; you are the person with whom I can still picture traveling, seeing the world, who can rip me from my lethargy, from my doomsday feeling of being done living emotionally. Any word from you jolts me back to intensity, to want, to desire, to hope, to sexual longing. You can still provoke these states in me. You still hold the key. You are the one who can tear me away from numbness – and how I’ve come to deplore and hate the numbness that mostly surrounds me these days. I want to be touched by you. I want to live moments I saw in the movie “Equals” with you. I felt starved for touch while watching the film. And I can’t think of anyone but you to entice my senses, to make them tingle, to make them want, you, your skin, beyond your skin, your touch, your voice, your words, your mind, beyond your mind, beyond what’s on the surface instead seeking, diving for what’s deep inside. I would like to unlock it, commune with it, bathe in it, bask in it, and rejoice in it. I want, want, want, so much when it comes to your person. I want your child. Imagine me, saying this, writing this. I want your child. I want to carry life inside of me, yours and mine. I want. I want to wake up next to you. I want to be where you are at. I want to watch you, admire you, listen to you speak six different languages.

I want – do you hear me out there – I want – when it comes to your person. I want.

Nothing more I can say other than I want. Pathetic, and sad, and longing, and desperate as it may sound. I want – and you are the one I want it with. So what do I do with all this want, all this buried longing, yearning, praying, hoping, dreaming, resetting, only to start the agonizingly numbing process all over again? What do I do? What else is there left to do? No one interests me, no one has truly interested me since you. I am lost in this ocean of aloneness, loneliness, buried, longing, numbed desire, feeling like I’ve just crossed the threshold of 90, looking back as if the moments we shared lie removed 40 or more years, instead of just two. If you only knew….you would think I have gone mental. Poor little middle-aged woman, having the hots for a boy 15 years her junior. How utterly pathetic. That is the chorus that resonates in my mind. It doesn’t help. It diminishes my feelings. It makes me feel ridiculous and puny and without true goal and aspirations in life. It makes me feel like I was hoodwinked, I was fooled and I took the bait, I swallowed it whole. That’s a pretty ugly feeling. It is a feeling that I can’t shake and yet it coexists, survives next to this small, tenacious, stubborn, little voice. It doesn’t want to evaporate, disappear. It hangs on, for the time being.