the truth is

I’ve noticed that days grow slower when you’re alone.  I try to pass the time by staring at the phone, scrolling through web pages, and counting the seconds until a minute passes by.  I would have wanted the chance to get away from everything because all I’ve been feeling is the in-between tears and laughter, but leaning towards tears.  I wish I could sleep better, as I find myself awake at 2:40 in the morning, and the world is asleep (or at least this side of the world).  I shut my eyes again, and I wake up where the sunlight hits my face, yet I felt like I haven’t slept a wink.

Days go by and the wounds are still fresh, as if each passing hour my heart is doused with alcohol and the sharpness worsens.  Is it terrible to want to be better, to move past all this? This is a question you cannot address to someone whose heart lies in the past, even if she tries so hard to live in the present.  But what good is now when there is merely no good at all? My thoughts flicker to you both–to the uncertainty of the future–to you both again.  My mind is an undecided light switch.

1, 2 I have given you what I said and what I should have said.  But yet, the words still come pouring out.  It’s as if we have so many things to resolve, even if it feels like we’ve said it all.  But all I’d like to say is I miss you both anyway, or at least I missed what we all used to be.  It’s not my fault the archives I rely on are breathing, living, moving.  It’s not my fault the files I’ve stored lie in finite bytes of beings.  Or is it in the end faults I do not wish to carry on as mine? There’s always a difference between admission and selection, and I have presented the latter too much to discern.

Maybe you miss me too, maybe you’ve moved on.  I can’t say for certain, and I’d certainly would not like my own self to assume.  It’s not that assumption is terrible, it just makes everything easier and more comforting.  Without assumption, there is hope.  And even if hope carries a virtuous character, in it lies a poison I am quite dependent on.  That everything will work out the way I want to, even if sometimes the universe wants its turn at bat.

I wish I could tell you that I am okay, that I could tell you so with a straight face, without my eyes giving it away.  Every day you ask me the same question, and every day I answer, “I will be.” I wish you knew that I am not a master of the future, much less an obedient student in the present.  But I wouldn’t want to damper your spirits by burdening you with my dampered spirit, as if you don’t have the weight of your world to carry.  You have that capacity to leave, to walk away, and I am touched that you haven’t yet.  I hope you won’t.  It’s a fear of mine that you end up becoming an archive too instead of a living moment.

But it’s never too late to learn, isn’t it? It’s never too late.  But one thing’s for certain: I could never let any of you go the way others could, because letting go–as I mentioned–can be done if you loved an idea, and I am sure that you all aren’t ideas.  I loved you all for you, and not for anything else.  And as always, you break down, seeping into every insignificant, non-living member and bring them to life as I watch the memories hover over them, as if I had gone back to when times were good, when times were great, when times were ours.

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