For Such A Long Time Now . . .
I'm in that sad place of recognition where life pokes holes in my naive theories of happiness. Everything is OK, until it isn't. Coasting, then falling, with saltwater rushing up my nose. It's strangely incongruous that I can play pretend so well. Most of the time my anxiety leads me to see each step as the steepest fall, but I can flit and smile and enjoy the moment to moment. I can somehow believe that it is the long road for us both. That we are OK. Despite chemicals, death, and dramatics - I can experience the good of two people sharing their respective lives in a consistent way. I can find a way to be happy.
But its gravity on the other line when you realize you can have the same disagreement 3,000 miles away. It's not even a real relationship at this point, just lose threads waiting to be cut. Distance makes the heart cling tighter, though, and whole worlds can be romanticized in the space of months and miles. I never wanted to get married and I never saw myself returning. But it's that sad, final, blow of difference. That I believe in the inherent potential and good of the human race and he reads too much Ayn Rand. That I want to understand where words shift and a conversation turns over and ugly, onto its ear. That I want to piece that out, and he wants to sulk and swallow, rage and ruminate, accept and acquiesce.
He isn't going to be it.
Not the one. Not one at all.
There are no more fantasy options.
The safety net is gone.
I've engaged in some fierce subtraction since moving out here and right now that feels terribly isolating and frightening. I just hope I can wake up tomorrow and see the freedom of it all.
But its gravity on the other line when you realize you can have the same disagreement 3,000 miles away. It's not even a real relationship at this point, just lose threads waiting to be cut. Distance makes the heart cling tighter, though, and whole worlds can be romanticized in the space of months and miles. I never wanted to get married and I never saw myself returning. But it's that sad, final, blow of difference. That I believe in the inherent potential and good of the human race and he reads too much Ayn Rand. That I want to understand where words shift and a conversation turns over and ugly, onto its ear. That I want to piece that out, and he wants to sulk and swallow, rage and ruminate, accept and acquiesce.
He isn't going to be it.
Not the one. Not one at all.
There are no more fantasy options.
The safety net is gone.
I've engaged in some fierce subtraction since moving out here and right now that feels terribly isolating and frightening. I just hope I can wake up tomorrow and see the freedom of it all.
posted by clutterofechoes at 11:24 PM
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