I’m currently in the procedure of making one of the worst decisions I’ve made in my entire life. The only thing I have to stave off insanity any longer is the knowledge that I’m not really making a decision. It’s just that the logical part of my brain can’t control the emotional part of my brain. In fact, it’s gotten to the point now that my logic and emotion controlling lobes are working almost completely against each other, as if they were arch rivals, fighting for the fate of humanity. Unfortunately- or fortunately, depending on outcomes- the emotional lobe of my brain is beginning to seep it’s dirty little notions into the logical portion of my brain. When things like that start to occur, my logical lobes seem to take these emotional ideas and run with them, as if they were deep seeded conspiracy theories.
It’s now more than ever when I can define the word “want” as “the state of not having her.” Because she’s not mine. And she never will be mine. Or maybe she will. Maybe the conflict is all in my mind. Maybe the only way to put it to rest is to let this war spill out onto paper, and let the punches be thrown, and let my mind go where it may. As if I could stop it if I wanted to. I want nothing more than to stop my mind from letting these thoughts creep in. That’s a lie. I want one thing more. I want her. I don’t want her in that physical, sweaty, down-and-dirty, touchy-feely want. This is a desire to be with her. And to have her with me. Not necessarily with me as in standing next to me or being everywhere I go, but having her with me, as a state of relationship, and commitment, and attachment. Not that we’re not already attached. But it’s not that kind of attached.
I want to stop the thoughts from entering my mind. I spend all my time trying not to think about it. Before it used to make me smile to think about her. That was before. That was before this got drawn out, and stale, and bitter in my mouth. Nothing about her is stale, and nothing about her is bitter. She is the one sweetest, most amazing, most awe-inspiring muse that I’ve ever laid eyes or hands or lips on. But it’s the situation that’s become stagnant and putrid. It’s a state I don’t want to be in anymore. But I can’t explain that to her. Because she won’t understand. She’ll understand, but she won’t want to understand. She’ll want to blame. Blame is the cause of all of life’s little problems. At least all the ones that involve her. Because if there’s blame to be placed, she’ll find it a good home. But that’s just me blaming her.
These thoughts are everywhere. There was a time, a few weeks ago, when I thought it was going to happen. It was really going to happen. I don’t mean “it” the way junior high kids mean “it” when they say “it.” I don’t mean the physical act of “doing it.” I mean “it” in that same relationship, commitment, attachment way that I mentioned before. When I say I thought “it” was going to happen, I don’t mean that I thought the two of us would lie down and make passionate, sweet, 1976 love. I mean that I thought the two of us were finally on the road to being an us, a we, a couple, a she & I. That was a few weeks ago. It seems like months. Maybe it was months. Weeks make up months, I still know that. I still know that weeks make up months, and days make up weeks, and hours make up days, and so on and so forth. I even know that months make up years and you get the idea. I still know that. I’m starting to think that those are the only kinds of things I still really know. I’m starting to feel I was so wrong, and now I’m so right. I knew so much so little time ago. Now I know so much different stuff.
That part of my brain that controls emotions. It’s a pretty crazy sonamabitch. I mean certifiably bright-shiny-new-hockey-helmet-in-the-back-of-the-little-yellow-van loony. I really believe that my emotional side could have thought up all the alternate shooter scenarios that the conspiracy theorists concocted about the JFK shooting. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the emotional chunk of my gray matter is such a way gone daddy that he may have actually shot JFK himself, were it not for his apparent attachment to the rest of my brain/body. But that part of my noodle has come up with some good ones now. Because she doesn’t care anymore. That’s what he’s telling me. That’s what he’s whispering in my ear, in every breath I take, in every blink I blink, in every ounce of my body, that’s what he’s telling me. She doesn’t care anymore. Somedays it’s just that she’s starting to care less, but mostly now it’s full blown “she doesn’t care”. I messed up somehow. I wish I knew how. That’s what’s really beating me up around here. I wish I knew how. I wish I knew if only I knew why can’t I know does anyone know. Weeks or months or days ago we were so close to being a thing. Now she’s gone back. Back where she came from. I don’t mean “back where she came from” in the sense that she moved to her childhood town, and I of course am making no reference to the absurd notion that she could have in someway returned to her mother’s womb or father’s sperm. That would be ludicrous. I mean “she went back where she came from” in the sense that she returned to Him. And by “Him” I am in no way referenced God in Heaven or any other deity that may or may not exist in our plane of existence or any other. I when I reference “Him” I intend to refer to the young man who has “apparently” found some sort of way to keep her heart with him. How he’s done it is beyond my comprehension. It may be beyond human comprehension all together, although I don’t want to insinuate for even one instant that I am in any way far superior at grasping these situations than any other primate, human or otherwise. In fact, I personally feel that my understanding of these types of situations in general, my specific situation included, is more comparable to the comprehension levels of some of the lower primates. Maybe even invertebrates.
I wish I knew what he did. Although I spend most of my time thinking about her trying not to think about Him. I wish I knew what he did to get her back to Him. Right now right this very second and every second and every right now I’ve tried to think about going to work has been consumed by not wanting to go to work. And it’s because of her. It feels like I should be dedicating my time to her. Every second that I think of going to bed just keeps me up that much longer because the sooner I go to bed the sooner I have to get up and go to work and every second I spend at work I spend not with her. Not that she calls me back anyway. I don’t have a schedule anymore. I have her schedule. She has her schedule, and I have her schedule. I don’t have my own. I can’t have my own. She might get upset. I need to go to bed. But then I’ll have to go to work. Can’t buy her nice things if I don’t go to work. She’d get mad if I didn’t buy her nice things/take her nice places/call her pretty names. She’d get mad. Not that she doesn’t get mad anyway. But then she’d have a reason. It’s easier when she doesn’t have a reason. If I don’t go to work, I can spend the time with her. If I quit another job, there can be more time for her. I’ll just wait until she gets out of work. I have to have my phone on me, because if she calls me from her job I have to be able to talk to her. She can’t get my voice mail/answering machine/constant ring, because then I’m evil. Man-whore. Because then I’m a man-whore. But she can shut her phone off, and laugh at it in the morning. Every morning. Every morning when the night before she said she’d call me back. When she said she’d come and visit and hang out and watch cartoons with me. Last night she could go get ice cream, but couldn’t come see me. So she shut her phone off so I couldn’t call her. It was pretty smart of her. She’s so smart. I wish I were more like her. I wish I were more like her. And she wishes I was more like her. She loves herself. As much as she hates herself, she loves herself. She wants everyone to love her. Why shouldn’t she? I wish I loved myself the way everyone seems to love her. My parents don’t love her. Good for them. No traps for them. That just leaves me.
Traps are for bears, not for boys. Why am I in this one? Why can’t I act anymore? All I do is question. I never questioned before. Before life went forward, always forward. Progression, education. Life doesn’t move forward anymore. Life sits in one place and thinks. Thinking is okay. No it’s not. Not anymore. Thinking is destroying me. Thinking is stopping my life. It’s stopping the progression. It’s stopping the education. Thinking is an abomination on my existence. She’s not. She’s a ray of hope. She’s THE ray of hope. The flame from one single candle can be used to light many, and yet, that first candle’s flame still burns as hot/bright. I’ve met the candle. She is the candle. She can spread happiness just through the way she walks, and the way she talks, and the way she bosses me around and the way she ignores me, and the way she makes herself feel better. As long as she feels good, we all can feel good, can’t we? Isn’t that how it works now? We’re all that much better off for having known her. Thank you so much, Ms. Candle. I have met the candle.
It is my own fault you know. It is my fault for having feelings, and sharing them. Why would anyone do something like that? I wish someone could tell me. I know days and weeks and months and etc., but I don’t know the answer to that. Not one bit. Why did I have to have feelings? It’s my fault, because I have feelings. She told me so. It’s all my fault. That makes it so much easier. As long as it’s not her fault. The blame the blame the blame the blame. “Blame” is a funny word. Ha ha funny. Say it a lot. Out loud. Blameblameblame. It’s funny. I’m funny. She’s really funny. Funny and pretty and special and don’t ANYONE FORGET IT. She doesn’t like it if you don’t tell her how special she is. She’s a fragile unique snowflake, and she needs attention. Attention is the sun to her magnolia. “Magnolia.” I'm Sorry. I’m so sorry.