Boxiness
Fufufu...
I'm not feeling particularly inspired to be creative this evening, so I'm not going to try and exhume something that isn't there.
I keep checking my mail. It's been a month since Kathryn last wrote me.
And I don't think she's going to write me back.
I mean... if I think about it, and I were in her position, and I had been rather firmly expressed to that it would be a Very Bad Idea to keep talking to either my ex, or his S.O.... why would I even bother writing him to tell him that I wouldn't write him, any more?
She's closed nearly every door. I think writing a "final goodbye" would be the very last turn of the key before the tumbler shuts and catches.
So.... yeah. I dunno.
I still think the whole situation sucks. But, y'know.... what can I do? *shrug*
This is the bed I made for myself, a long time ago. I can't just retroactively decide that I don't like it, even though I've spent months and months trying to remake it.
Better just shut up and sleep in it.
I realized a couple nights ago that I need to write in my Penzu journal soon. Crack open my skull and dig around a bit. Maybe try and pin down some of my recent, squirming habits.
I haven't done some serious introspection in a long while, and that's beginning to make me uncomfortable? Which is both weird, and relieving.
I keep coming back to Kathryn. And the nature of my writing, here.
I stopped writing TO her, because she and Ruth were trying to be friends. So then I (re)started my private journal, on another site (because I think the webmaster for diaryland has fucking died, or something. WtF is going on?).
So then my words kind of morphed into this new kind of amateur prose stuff. I enjoy writing it. I like practicing. I'm pretty awful at it. But that's ok. It was still an expression of myself, meant to be shared with Kathryn, even though she doesn't read any more.
But then... when she pushed Ruth out, I forgot to realize that... I didn't need to censor myself any more.
I could have written her. Email after email of thoughts. With nothing between her and Ruth left to endanger, I needn't tread lightly any more.
Except.
For the fact.
That I would still be.
The same selfish fucking creature.
I had always been.
If I did that.
And of course, it's easy for me to say that, now. Easy to assess the situation, and say "I should not do this because it is what she has asked me not to do multiple times. And it looks and even feels like genuine consideration.
But that's easy to say, because I'm viewing it from a distance. Easy to squint and say "Well, sure-- that cowardice looks remarkably similar to acceptance."
I keep waiting for her to write me back.
She still has a whole rest-of-an-email to respond to.
But, she never does.
And I'm beginning to wonder.
If she really ever will.
One month.
How long, then? Two months?
Three?
Never?
And in the meantime, I suspect that I'll just shift over completely to my enigmatic, stylized metaphors as a means of pouring out my mind.
Whilst saving the actual, mental bloodletting for my Penzu writing.
I dunno.
I guess I've just run out of ideas. Things to do. Actions to take.
I told her-- and meant it-- that I wanted her to just find consonance, and be happy.
And I really do. I hope she's happy.
In a genuinely, deeply, actually content-kind-of-happiness.
Not some sort of self-deceiving happiness made of concessions and sub-par mediocrity.
But still.
I have to keep reminding myself.
Chiding myself.
That she doesn't owe me anything.
All the while, I'm trying to pay for my sins, and then some.
Because I know she won't ever fully forgive me. Nor will she ever come back.
So the only mercy I can ever be allowed.
Is the clemency I allow myself.
And yet, here I am.
I sound like a record with a busted groove.
Saying the same phrases over and over.
Preaching the same obvious revelation.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Hoping to buy myself tiny fractions of time. Slices of it long enough to stitch together into a patchwork of "having waited long enough" before she finally comes back.
11:28 p.m. - 2014-05-22
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