I find so much sadness in knowing that someday I'll stop writing about her too.
With these "epic loves" of mine there is every intention to write novel upon novel about them however after a few thousand words or about a dozen pages of my lovesick ramblings, it has to come to an end simply because they have given me nothing more to write about except how terribly miserable my life has become without them in it... and even that has to stop eventually. There is only so much pining one can do before it becomes so repetitive, anger-laden and self-destructive that writing becomes a dreaded chore - a painful reminder instead of an outlet for the uncontrollable stream of thoughts that wage war inside my head.
There is always the hope that she would be something more than that - something more than them. I cannot ignore, however, that she is no longer the muse that she used to be to me. She does not inspire me to write so much as she depresses me to do so. I want to write of the happiness and the reverence but I cannot now as it would be far too untruthful. I can no longer pretend that I wholly adore everything about her because she has managed to anger me to a point where I cannot feign an ignorant affection. Furthermore, I wish it were so simple as to say that I did not love her or want her - that would be untrue as well. In fact, it is my love for her that angers me. It is my inability to remove her from my mind that is so incredibly frustrating.
I cannot trust her with distance - which is something my affair with her shares in common with those who came before her. They dwindle and die to me by their own doing. It is their lack of desire for me that kills. It is painful to say the least - to know that people who I want to love so deeply have absolutely no intention of returning my affection or my attempts to stay in touch. I don't need to see someone everyday to maintain any kind of relationship with them nor to continue to love them - perhaps that is why I still feel the same way about her after not having seen or heard from her in ages. I wish she wanted to talk to me. I wish she wanted to see me... enough that it would inspire her to actually do something about it at least. I've seen what she's like when she wants something or someone - she takes it, she gets it. Nothing stands in her way. But I suppose, I'm not the drug she craves nor the guy she wants to fuck. I'm just the silly girl that cannot help but give her everything that I can. I'm just the girl who sees her face in every crowd, who sees a head of curly hair in the distance and prays that those curls belong to her, who hears her voice so loudly in my head that it makes me jump. I'm just the girl who cries over her, who is kind of dying over her and the fact that I have nothing to offer her.
If I tilt my head back for a split second; if I am removed from the present and allowed to reach back into my memory, I see her so vividly. I am happy in distant dreams, fantasy and distant wondering... but never here and never right now in my physical occupation of space and time because she's not here. I'm starting to wonder if she'll ever be here again. I wonder when the memories will no longer inspire such joy and excitement. I wonder when I will forget. The only certainty about life is that there is death. Every moment, second, and instant lives and then dies just as we who are born are fated to die. Memories that are forged and stored are fated to fade or become forgotten or die when we do. Is that peace - our natural amnesia, the perpetual dying of the present? If I have forgotten what it means to love her, is that peace or is that just forgetfulness or ignorance in itself?
When my heart no longer knows you, will I have peace?
It hardly seems plausible, at this point, that I could forget her. How did she do it? How did she manage to forget me? I thought that surely I would be memorable enough.Yet here I am, thinking of all the ways I could have made our moments last just a little bit longer, the ways I could have made them unforgettable. It's too late now. She was already forgetful to begin with - why did I not see that that would mean she would never be able to love me back because she would always forget that I was worthy of that love. I lack the resources - the time, the money, the energy, the proximity, the courage or the sanity to keep reminding her. That's why I have nothing to offer her... because I am in no way worth remembering.
With these "epic loves" of mine there is every intention to write novel upon novel about them however after a few thousand words or about a dozen pages of my lovesick ramblings, it has to come to an end simply because they have given me nothing more to write about except how terribly miserable my life has become without them in it... and even that has to stop eventually. There is only so much pining one can do before it becomes so repetitive, anger-laden and self-destructive that writing becomes a dreaded chore - a painful reminder instead of an outlet for the uncontrollable stream of thoughts that wage war inside my head.
There is always the hope that she would be something more than that - something more than them. I cannot ignore, however, that she is no longer the muse that she used to be to me. She does not inspire me to write so much as she depresses me to do so. I want to write of the happiness and the reverence but I cannot now as it would be far too untruthful. I can no longer pretend that I wholly adore everything about her because she has managed to anger me to a point where I cannot feign an ignorant affection. Furthermore, I wish it were so simple as to say that I did not love her or want her - that would be untrue as well. In fact, it is my love for her that angers me. It is my inability to remove her from my mind that is so incredibly frustrating.
I cannot trust her with distance - which is something my affair with her shares in common with those who came before her. They dwindle and die to me by their own doing. It is their lack of desire for me that kills. It is painful to say the least - to know that people who I want to love so deeply have absolutely no intention of returning my affection or my attempts to stay in touch. I don't need to see someone everyday to maintain any kind of relationship with them nor to continue to love them - perhaps that is why I still feel the same way about her after not having seen or heard from her in ages. I wish she wanted to talk to me. I wish she wanted to see me... enough that it would inspire her to actually do something about it at least. I've seen what she's like when she wants something or someone - she takes it, she gets it. Nothing stands in her way. But I suppose, I'm not the drug she craves nor the guy she wants to fuck. I'm just the silly girl that cannot help but give her everything that I can. I'm just the girl who sees her face in every crowd, who sees a head of curly hair in the distance and prays that those curls belong to her, who hears her voice so loudly in my head that it makes me jump. I'm just the girl who cries over her, who is kind of dying over her and the fact that I have nothing to offer her.
If I tilt my head back for a split second; if I am removed from the present and allowed to reach back into my memory, I see her so vividly. I am happy in distant dreams, fantasy and distant wondering... but never here and never right now in my physical occupation of space and time because she's not here. I'm starting to wonder if she'll ever be here again. I wonder when the memories will no longer inspire such joy and excitement. I wonder when I will forget. The only certainty about life is that there is death. Every moment, second, and instant lives and then dies just as we who are born are fated to die. Memories that are forged and stored are fated to fade or become forgotten or die when we do. Is that peace - our natural amnesia, the perpetual dying of the present? If I have forgotten what it means to love her, is that peace or is that just forgetfulness or ignorance in itself?
When my heart no longer knows you, will I have peace?
It hardly seems plausible, at this point, that I could forget her. How did she do it? How did she manage to forget me? I thought that surely I would be memorable enough.Yet here I am, thinking of all the ways I could have made our moments last just a little bit longer, the ways I could have made them unforgettable. It's too late now. She was already forgetful to begin with - why did I not see that that would mean she would never be able to love me back because she would always forget that I was worthy of that love. I lack the resources - the time, the money, the energy, the proximity, the courage or the sanity to keep reminding her. That's why I have nothing to offer her... because I am in no way worth remembering.
 I've never felt invincibility Alongside such intense vulnerability before. That is because she inspires The truest of contradictions. Imagine the collision Between fantasy and reality, My perpetual irony, That is Her. There is the frantic searching, The panicked yearning To find mental spaces Without fear - One where she can be near Without causing me to freeze. She scares me Because She is every beautiful thing. She is every complicated, crazy, magical thing That a person could hope to be. Just look at her for long enough - You'll see the way she glows, The way it looks as if she knows Every secret that you've ever tried to keep. Human potential is reached In her moments of excitement. I've watched her enjoyment And thought, "She's what my happiness looks like." I can do little to adequately describe The soft quaking, the quiet aching I feel inside Because She moves me. She is ruthless, she is gentle. It astounds me. It's impossible to feel any more alive When she smiles. It's impossible not to feel The electricity in the spaces Between her fingers Or the way that She tends to linger On my lips Long after she's left. But I can't deny That she's killing me It's not a spectacle, It's not on display for the world to see. She kills me inwardly And discreetly But nonetheless completely. It's slow and torturous And I can feel The burning in my bones. There are flowers In her eyes. There are galaxies in her mind. She is infinity upon infinity, And still she takes the time To pity Me. I am pulled To each extreme, I am violently confronted With the rawness of being. The trauma, The trauma, Oh, the beauty of being. Too scared to touch her, Too guilt-ridden to want her, Too angry to forgive myself for loving her. She deserves a perfection That I cannot muster. She is a goddess And I am a monster. I am fated to pretend, Fated to be still, Fated to let her be Without me While I am brought to my knees, Chained in awe, Choked by the vastness, Humbled by her. I exist in a space Of rapid delusion. I exist in a space Of immense confusion Yet clarity looks like her, Bravery roars as she does. I know, With unwavering certainty, That there is nothing that I can give her. Because She is already every beautiful thing. |  |
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