I have to be one of the most reclusive social people I know. And I know some pretty reclusive social people. Sometimes, oftentimes really, I enjoy my own company, an engaging film filled with friends that can feel more real than the ones I’ve got.
I know some amazing people, with unique perspectives and varying degrees of humor about this thing we all have, called life.
I’m feeling the loss of one of those people incredibly strongly these days. He’s not dead, just gone. Far beyond my reach, so I can’t embrace him. My heart still holds a place for him there, but I’m afraid it’s gravely wounded now, and beginning to scab over.
He insists I let it be. That I let it go, and move on. I know this to be sound advice, as I seem to be receiving it from all over, but I cannot, somehow against all better judgement, let go of this person.
Perhaps, one day, I can look back on this and say it was only youthful foolishness. But at what cost do I let this deep wound heal?
I can feel the walls growing higher. I can feel myself receding into my own depths, my solitude amplified and vast.
I can still laugh. I can still go out and see people. I can still dredge up emotion and passion for my creations. But as for connection with other people? I find it becoming increasingly more difficult to allow others to find me. I hold them at arms length. I shove them away. I laugh at them, in their pitiful attempts to appear interesting, in their shameful, smutty words.
As imperfect as we were, in our relationship, there was perfection plainly there. Simply and beautifully, and readily there. Perhaps my preoccupation with my own imperfections soiled it Perhaps his fear overwhelmed him to the point of having to let go to preserve his own feeling of safety.
I have to tell myself over and over again that I am not a horrible person. That I can’t have been that bad to be with. Maybe I was. I’m afraid I’ll never have the chance to truly know.
I have to fight my impulses to do myself harm. I have to fight for my own survival and happiness. I am alone. I am all I have. I want more, but it is impossible. This is my only lesson. And in evenings, when I am truly alone and the world is quiet, and it all becomes too unbearable, all that I can feel is that wound ripping open again, and the warmth of the tears dripping down my trembling and contorted face.
I’m desperate to stay alive, because I have yet to make my mark on the world in the way I would like. I’ll find the joy where I can, in fleeting moments. They are closely followed by the constant throbbing of my heart, aching to show you what I’ve found. Wishing we could have more time, to create some of that magic ourselves.
If I hold onto this, it will grow into me, and I can keep it safe. I don’t know who it will turn me into. If I let it go, then I am lost. I will have to shield myself from ever feeling that way again. I don’t know for how long. I don’t know who I would become then either.
In this, I have the power to decide. I did not get to decide for you to break my heart. To abandon me, though you promised me you never would. I cannot forgive you, and I cannot forget you.
I am alone, remembering.