Anonymous

Diary
2002-01-26 08:21:06 (UTC)

forgetfulness, et. al.

Right, so I thought I could just forget him, you
know, "wash that man right outta my hair, and send him on
his way!" I was out, you know. I was in a place where
even the most searching, pleading memory of him could not
have found its way into my consciousness, streamlined to a
point where I was finally in control. The glue was still
wet, but I was put back together in a way where, except for
the little cracks, I had not changed.

The random always has a way of playing little tricks on
you. Like, if you think hard enough, wishing with all your
might that something won't happen, probability has it that
it will. Or at least, if your luck plays inversely among
the mathematically probable (but only when the odds don't
favor you), you'd be me. But you aren't, because as
Descartes said, "I think therefore I am." And as luck
would have it, only I have to endure these tricks.

But I was out. I was nowhere, I was Odysseus, "Nobody",
twenty years from home. Then--like an omen--I smelled the
sweet wafting scent of a memory, and like lightening
quicker than a human's eye, I could see a small fan sitting
on a bedside, white curtains floating in a summer's breeze,
and green sheets curled into little, tangled waves, wrapped
around me like a dress. It was our last summer...I could even
smell that sweet scent of summer coming through the window, that
heady scent of grass, flowers, air, and sweat, all mixed up together
in the light of eight o'clock--when only in summer the sun is
still up (though barely!) enough to see by, in a romantic
evening musk. And I saw him, too, that spectacularly
average boy, sitting beside me like a king, a Titan.
Love's little joke, him, being there, rendering all my
physical beauty meaningless because he had so little of
it. I remember laying there, content to do nothing more
than nestle my forehead in that cranny of his neck where it
fit like a puzzle, as accurate as clockwork. Maybe hours
would pass, and maybe we'd go see a movie later. Maybe
we'd just sit there, smelling the summer air, lazy in
love.

Back then, love was so frightening. When I saw him, when I
held him, I could feel the danger of it--I could feel the
small, sharp pains in my heart; just by looking at him I
felt my heart would burst in overwhelming fullness. What
the poets called heartache, I felt in the shadow of his
gaze. Even though we were in love, together, it was a
solitary experience. I couldn't let myself go, just yet.
I was so young...and even though it was just one year ago,
I feel as if I aged many years since then.

I guess the details of our separation are unimportant. I
accredit it to the fact that we were young, perhaps. It
sounds cliche, but what can I say? What rationalizations
can any human being give for losing something so much
greater than any human life? A million words could not
describe what love meant to me, and a million words cannot
describe the aftermath. It's not necessarily depressing.
I haven't necessarily experienced much heartache. It never
really hurts unless I remember, and only then it's because
I'm selfish, and miss what I no longer have. Most of the time, I
just feel empty. Once you have something there, someone to fill
the void, it's suddenly noticeable after they're gone. Suddenly I
missed the fact that he was never there on time.

I guess I realize now that love is something that's
important enough to risk the world for, or at least, a
little dignity, a little pride. But I'm not cynical, not just yet.
I've never been cynical. A lost love, a lost virginity...a lost
era...these are not reasons to reject innocence. I
ate from the tree of knowledge, but I refuse to leave the
garden. Maybe I'm being naive, but how else can I deal with
these memories of him? When I drive, I look for his car. I hope
that maybe I'll run into him, randomly, somewhere. I hope that
maybe we'll meet again, and have another lazy summer. But I never
really realize that we separated for a reason, when I'm too busy
missing him. I never really realize how annoyed I'd get when he
wasn't punctual, or how mad it made me when he wouldn't listen to
what I was saying. I'm not in love with him now, though I was very
much in love before, and I can't help worrying that maybe I'll never
feel that same love again. So I cling to his memory, just to relive
a few of those feelings, to make myself feel alive, human, again.
And this, too, shall pass...

Someday I'll fall in love again--I'm only human--and next time, I'll
let myself go in the scariness. I'll let love swim around me; I'll
let myself swim in it. Until then, I'll be Odysseus, twenty years
from home...lost except for my memory. Why should that be
bad?

I'll touch shore, eventually.




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