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amulSo, if I'm going to be vulnerable with you, then I might as well be honest with you too. This group I'm hanging out with this weekend includes an ex more recent then the one that I was sort of triggered by this afternoon.
The ex that's here, I can't tell if she's really okay with me being here, because I have no access to that part of her anymore. And that's part of it, this moment that I've been tumbling through in my mind all evening.
Sometimes, when I dip into the dark end of my cycles of self opinion, I worry that I'm projecting anger over the older hurt onto this more accessible target. But of course, in the more reasonable moments, I know that I simply do not have access to that part that shows how she's feeling, anymore.
And I can remember being at that intersection, over and over again, because we'd run out of condoms again. At the bright peaks of my memories with her, to the dark valleys. At that intersection, driving to her, driving her to work, running out to pick up a few supplies.
And all that knowledge is locked away inside me somewhere, these tiny maps of local routes, and the brief encounters I had with the same store clerks, and that one yellow price sticker when all the rest were orange. The waitress whose sensual curiosity about a pin she suspected the meaning of, only talking to me because I had needed to get away from the cracked, burnt husk of a relationship that was going to bear my future.
And what good are these memories, that hold no use except to cling to something I should let go of? The framework on which lies discarded dream lays unfinished.
Better to let it all go. Better to forget every moment that happened in this town. Except....
It wasn't just the part of my life I spent nourishing a hope that didn't blossom. It was also part of MY life.
And I don't know how to unclench this muscle, relax this grip. I don't know how to let go without letting go of all of it.
And it was MY life, too, dammit. I've spent my life demanding that my life be worth remembering. I want to remember it.
The ex that's here, I can't tell if she's really okay with me being here, because I have no access to that part of her anymore. And that's part of it, this moment that I've been tumbling through in my mind all evening.
Sometimes, when I dip into the dark end of my cycles of self opinion, I worry that I'm projecting anger over the older hurt onto this more accessible target. But of course, in the more reasonable moments, I know that I simply do not have access to that part that shows how she's feeling, anymore.
And I can remember being at that intersection, over and over again, because we'd run out of condoms again. At the bright peaks of my memories with her, to the dark valleys. At that intersection, driving to her, driving her to work, running out to pick up a few supplies.
And all that knowledge is locked away inside me somewhere, these tiny maps of local routes, and the brief encounters I had with the same store clerks, and that one yellow price sticker when all the rest were orange. The waitress whose sensual curiosity about a pin she suspected the meaning of, only talking to me because I had needed to get away from the cracked, burnt husk of a relationship that was going to bear my future.
And what good are these memories, that hold no use except to cling to something I should let go of? The framework on which lies discarded dream lays unfinished.
Better to let it all go. Better to forget every moment that happened in this town. Except....
It wasn't just the part of my life I spent nourishing a hope that didn't blossom. It was also part of MY life.
And I don't know how to unclench this muscle, relax this grip. I don't know how to let go without letting go of all of it.
And it was MY life, too, dammit. I've spent my life demanding that my life be worth remembering. I want to remember it.