2008-12-26
you/him/...me
What to write about him... it's a tough thing to do. I've written about myself with respect to him, painfully, indulgently, numerous times. But he himself... writing about him seems like it would somehow be glorifying him, because I couldn't help but romanticize it, which bugs me because I know that I still hold contempt for the guy. Because, naturally, he left me when I didn't want him to, and because he's loved others more than he loved me.
I think I could love him still, or love him again.
When I read his words, I still melt, because the lines are recognizable not in a way that's like reuniting with an old friend, but in a way that�s like facing your past, present, and future self- some fixable entity within you that you don't always meet but when you do it causes your heart's beats to lurch for a split moment, like when you absent-mindedly notice that the visage you�re glancing at is actually your own reflection in the mirror.
The lines make me feel more alive, because they pique at that thing inside me, make me halt and rise in recognition.
And that troubles me. You so far have been my greatest love- for whom my affection, and my very self, for that matter, were most truly and earnestly imparted.
But you are lofty and whimsy; you love love more than anyone I know, you are the epitome of a romanticizing fool, drunk on a feeble yet ambitious quest to indulge in your drug, this feeling that overtakes you. It quenches you, and you relentlessly hunt it, as the exhilaration of the search fuels your poetic words, your guitar strums.
Oh but just look at you. You've already inspired all these lines, second-rate as they may be, I appreciate that, because I've been a dry well lately. That's what you do, even just the memory of you, it's brimming with all these potential energy for creativity, for being alive. At your worst, you're delusional, incredibly selfish and self-indulgent, and remarkably unfeeling and even possibly creepy.
But at your best. Your best. Maybe it's okay. Maybe I'll suck it up and deal with it; to hell with my unrealistic desire for equality in reciprocal love. Your best is, decidedly, the love of my relatively short yet eager and densely experienced life.
I know it's foolish to still love you, pathetic even. But such feelings are no stranger to you, so you'll somewhat get what I feel. And it's something I'm somewhat proud of in a weird way, because it's not sentimentality or nostalgia that's feeding my dormant yet sustained fondness of you. It's something less cheesy and less transparent than sepia-shaded memories that the mind wistfully warps, it's some essence that's enigmatic enough that you could spare me from trying to describe it.
But it's something that transcends our past, something fixable within you, like the fixable-ness in me that your words remind me of. It's the most invariable shade of your persona, your psyche, your very self at your core, something impermeable by time and circumstance, something I don't even have to have faith in because that suggests there's the possibility for doubting its existence, and I am too certain of it.
I hate for day to break and for the harsh light of reality to blanch these vibrant thoughts and longings, but I know that morning will come and wash them out, current circumstances and a huffy pride overpowering this. I adopted your brand of delusion for the night, perhaps emulating you too well. Hell, I was going for maybe some philosophical speculation on intimacy when I started this, and look how it's transformed into a typical 2nd person perspective, complete with semi-graceful confessions of the heart.
But it's something. Like I said, I've been a dry well. Maybe I should emulate you more often.
leesah-likes at 2:15 a.m.