The Past is Dead

The cycle keeps repeating itself. Five years ago, I watched someone in a white T-shirt walk away from me. Today, I watched the same person walk away from me in a white sweatshirt. It’s sad that as far as I’ve come, I’m still chasing  the same ghost.

We sat in the orange, rickety chair. Poorly supported in his arms, I look down to see the colorings of our skin. He is bones and his eyes red from exhaustion while mine would later be red from tears.  

“I just want to know that I won’t have to worry about you contacting me in three years.”
He shrugs beneath me. “I might.”
It feels like a threat.
“You’ll probably just move and won’t tell me where you’re going.”

My store of tears is empty. They have solidfied into that blow to the stomach. The blow to wake you, to remind you that this existed, and that you existed in the myriad of mistakes. That not only successes shape you.

Quod me nutrit me destriut.

J found his own temerity when he finally asked me, “Maybe it’s you that should be taking the hint?” I think he expected this to be a felling cut of clarity, but it was already a piece of wreckage in my mind. It kept being swallowed by the waves, then drifting back to the shore of my thoughts on the silent and moon-filled nights.

It was never a hint. It was using the very act of inaction, the withdrawal, that was to be the action. I fought it. I fought it even though I understood it – quite the fool’s errand. Yet I’ve continue to feel I wouldn’t change it.

…Or would I? Where would I be now if two years ago I had left it all as an awkward, yet hilarious, one-sided tale of woe over coffee at a truck stop restaurant? This is the spiral that will drive you mad.

I could quote you the number of days. J said that when I stop counting I would be over the addiction. I never stopped counting last time though and I hold more hope for now, but still don’t believe that I’ll stop counting. It’s my form of waiting. I listen for my phone, count, and wait.

I started a draft to a blog a couple weeks ago that said something like, “Watching someone fall out of love with you is worse than death.” I deleted it. I did not know the implication of death. I still don’t know the implication of that sort of death. I do know loss. I deleted it also because it’s overwrought and reeks of that palpable, almost fake, angst, but letting the statement hang and dry in the air doesn’t change the gut shifting nature of that emotion.

I described us best in a conversation with a friend. We were living continually on peaks and valley. I was high on the peak, but could not breath and the sun burned me. I would walk back down.  Sometimes I would jump. Somewhere he then walked up. We never took the same path. We weren’t even on similar paths to which we could wave to one another; we took different sides of the mountain. We were always separate. This, I found, was how he really wanted it.

I bought the lines, even the recent. I thought I could trust the body, his heart fluttering like a bird when I laid my hand on his, rippling under his chest. But then, I didn’t listen to my own. That same night, when kissed I realized how dull I had become to the kisses and the touch. His kisses had become only a way to placate me for the touch. I kept being reminded in my mind that, “whores don’t kiss.”

Crazily, right about now it seems like death would seems easier than the loss of love, but I know that isn’t true at all. An old friend of mine would have a tactic against his past, which I can guarantee was used for me too. In passing, he would just shrug and say, “It doesn’t matter. She’s dead now.”

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12 Responses to The Past is Dead

  1. strangerandstranger says:

    A helpful note don’t know if it will work for you and it semi works for me. try fixationg on something else like a game. Anyway you know my story always here to lend my shoulder. My young one is finally leaving the fore front of my mind. Hugs to you good luck with this long oslitary jounry. WE your friends are all here for you and most of us know what you are going through.

  2. eatsbugs says:

    For me, it is waiting for the day when I’ll stop hating Honda Civics. My mother almost bought one, and I don’t know if I would have ever let myself be around that sort of thing. One day…one day.

    Having the blues is hardly a nice thing. We’ll talk more later.

  3. The Rebuker says:

    This is the blog equivalent of that final scene in every French film where the protagonist, wearied by the strain of loving and losing, stares out the window into a grey drizzle. The next logical step, it seems, would be to dust the popcorn crumbs from your lap and leave the theatre.

  4. theMayor says:

    I think your reactions and initial feelings toward all of this will serve you well, intuition at work. I’ve often felt the same, and when the “assault” wears off, it felt like an ultimate betrayal. A punch to the gut.

    It is probably one of the worst feelings I’ve ever encountered.

    I’m curious, do I know this dude? or shall I call him Mystery Dude?

  5. firewings says:

    @Rebuker – It sucks that my life reduces down to a French film. At least I had popcorn and can make the choice to leave the theater. You are very right.

    @K – Of course you do silly.

  6. theMayor says:

    hehe, ok … so my last question. Did I graduate with Mystery Dude?

    If so, I didn’t realize you two were so close, I thought it was just a highschool fling. I take it that extended beyond/through college? That really sucks, if you need anybody to talk to you can always call, or if you need something to scream at, feel free to watch my video of theft again 😉

  7. firewings says:

    @K – Yes. And “close” is a relative statement. (Also, I don’t have your number. Email me. I dare you.)

  8. My favorite break-up songs:

    Glenn Campbell, “By the Time I Get to Phoenix”
    Frank Sinatra’s “Wee Small Hours” — the whole album, every song is a break-up song.
    And for me, Etta James’ “At Last” got me through a divorce. It says “at last my man has come and stay,” but for some reason, when I listened it always sounded (to me) like “at last my man has come and gone…” and voila! — it’s a break-up song!

  9. Oh, and one more:

    Delbert McClinton: “When Rita Leaves (she’s gone)” — a very cheerful break-up song. “She’s gone” ends up sounding like: “Yay!! She’s gone!”

  10. firewings says:

    Ah, I don’t do so well walking the fine line between uplifting break-up songs and songs that’ll just dump you into a fog of Bleah.

    But I do love that Etta James song. ^_^

  11. theMayor says:

    o.0 ohhhh, and email challenge. I’ll take you up on it 😉

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