It seems fitting and ironic (in that Alanis Morissette kind of way) that the last thing I wrote so many years ago in this tiny red journal that I only use when traveling was about you.... before we met and long before you noticed me, if we are to go on the assumption that you ever did notice me; because it took me approaching you, and even then it's suspect that you ever did...
I wish I could hate you or say you were mean or unkind in some way, but I can't because I don't and you weren't... yet... You just never noticed me. It's almost like I am a silhouette of undetermined form with obvious edges but no details; yet I know it's the details that make me so good. But you can't see the details, and I want to say it's ok, that you just kind of wasted my time ignoring those beautiful details, like you waste food and yourself... But deep down I know I deserve more and it's not ok, and I am so angry at you for wasting those details...
It seems fitting and ironic (in that Alanis Morissette kind of way) that your driving music and your sex music are the same. And it is fitting that my sex music and my emo writing music are the same... That I sit here, reading words I wrote so long ago, wishing I could make these differences into similarities or align our completely different psyches in some other way... So fitting that my attempts to avoid this feeling-- this space-- have been complete failures... That I sit here now, so many years later, feeling this feeling... surviving it anyway...
It seems fitting that the one time we made love was not under the veil of connection, but more when we realized that it was never going to happen but still decided to travel down that road that we both knew would end in a cliff. You knew you would survive, because you could bail out, sail, or fly to safety.... leaving me here- where I always knew I would end up.
And for some reason it seems fitting and ironic (in that Alanis Morissette kind of way) that I want more than anything not to leave you, even though I should and perhaps need to.... because I have been trained to love people who only see my silhouette; people whose favorite picture is that red one that provides no detail but a general feeling of numb nothing.... much like this blog, vague and obscure... detailing the detail-less ending of this vague and obscure affair.
I wish I could hate you or say you were mean or unkind in some way, but I can't because I don't and you weren't... yet... You just never noticed me. It's almost like I am a silhouette of undetermined form with obvious edges but no details; yet I know it's the details that make me so good. But you can't see the details, and I want to say it's ok, that you just kind of wasted my time ignoring those beautiful details, like you waste food and yourself... But deep down I know I deserve more and it's not ok, and I am so angry at you for wasting those details...
It seems fitting and ironic (in that Alanis Morissette kind of way) that your driving music and your sex music are the same. And it is fitting that my sex music and my emo writing music are the same... That I sit here, reading words I wrote so long ago, wishing I could make these differences into similarities or align our completely different psyches in some other way... So fitting that my attempts to avoid this feeling-- this space-- have been complete failures... That I sit here now, so many years later, feeling this feeling... surviving it anyway...
It seems fitting that the one time we made love was not under the veil of connection, but more when we realized that it was never going to happen but still decided to travel down that road that we both knew would end in a cliff. You knew you would survive, because you could bail out, sail, or fly to safety.... leaving me here- where I always knew I would end up.
And for some reason it seems fitting and ironic (in that Alanis Morissette kind of way) that I want more than anything not to leave you, even though I should and perhaps need to.... because I have been trained to love people who only see my silhouette; people whose favorite picture is that red one that provides no detail but a general feeling of numb nothing.... much like this blog, vague and obscure... detailing the detail-less ending of this vague and obscure affair.
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