stuff, whatever, things
I am not as smart as you think I am, for if I were, I would not just understand my own psychology well enough to know the why of my doing things I would also be aware enough in the moment of my doing to change my actions and not repeat my patterns into infinity as I am doing and have done and will do and always have for all these forty years. Moses and his people wandered for forty years in the desert before finding themselves on the shores of paradise, could perhaps that mean that after forty years of deserted I might find a small corner of paradise to inhabit that exists outside the walls of my skull and that I may entertain guests in from time to time? If not then its equal or better would also be an acceptable substitute for the crushing feeling of impending nihilism and ennui, themselves already cliche and I think that by now that I should be able to agree with the handsome man who tells me I deserve better than the recent examples of past relationlimbo that litter my adulthood, and yet, and yet.
The things that my now exhusband hated about me were the very things that my now exgirlfriend loved and yet in both cases were the things that drove both of them out of my life, the need for space, the need for controlled clutter, the hoarding of books and music and momentos that are my memory because the organic memory fails me until a song or a phrase or a scrap of paper reminds me and transports me back to the memory of joy or sorrow or laughter in its turn, the need for independence but the equal need for comfort and possession, the desperation to not need any longer. I am aware of my flaws and my talents and the unmet potential. And underlying all those years with those two beloved blonde Sagittarians was a third blonde, the absent Gemini who may well have been the reason I finally had the strength to leave one and the sanity to walk away from the other, but his damage is insidious and like any damage is done by me to me and now I find I am even more reluctant to share the tender underbelly of my psyche with a lover, the desires kept hidden even from myself until opportunity presents itself, the want to discover new horizons inside my own head and my trust to let another in there for the journey. And I want, oh how I want to explore and share and discover each other and ourselves and where the road leads and crippled I won't let myself even feel the first glimmer of any of it because the anticipated disappointment is so much more painful than the real thing might be and so much more known than the possibility of success even for a moment, which would really be stunning, if only for that moment. So instead I shy away from exactly what I want because nothing lasts and the very idea of it ending keeps me from starting it and yet like testing the too hot bath I keep toeing into those waters because it is what I want, what I really very much oh so much want and I know that the crash is going to hurt so fucking much, it's not like I haven't been there before. What happened to that girl I was that could walk away so easily and so often from the inappropriate loves from the temporarily mine into the heart ripped and bleeding territory and emerge on the other shore still breathing and looking forward to the next adventure, what happened to that girl that knew that monogamy was impossible and didn't care and what happened to me that I can't even now recognize that it was me that happened to me and that nobody is going to change me but me and no matter what fucked up relationships I have had, I was a full participant in them and still can't choose to just be happy in the moment that I am happy instead of living in anticipation of the painful end of that happy. If I were just a little less aware or a little more selftrusting or just plain able to voice my own godsdamned wants and desires and needs and able to just live in the moment that I am in, maybe then I would let myself feel the delirious delicious possibility of that what if of wonderful rather than keeping myself trapped in the dubious safety of cynicism and doubt and denial. And the fact that the last time I let myself live in the what if it was a complete disaster should really not matter and have no bearing on my ability to dream even if it is distant and silly and unsupported, who cares that it may never come true, why am I so unable to allow myself to imagine what if, why have I killed all the want to dream, what the hell else is it that we do here in this little life if not to have dreams, even impossible ones.
The things that my now exhusband hated about me were the very things that my now exgirlfriend loved and yet in both cases were the things that drove both of them out of my life, the need for space, the need for controlled clutter, the hoarding of books and music and momentos that are my memory because the organic memory fails me until a song or a phrase or a scrap of paper reminds me and transports me back to the memory of joy or sorrow or laughter in its turn, the need for independence but the equal need for comfort and possession, the desperation to not need any longer. I am aware of my flaws and my talents and the unmet potential. And underlying all those years with those two beloved blonde Sagittarians was a third blonde, the absent Gemini who may well have been the reason I finally had the strength to leave one and the sanity to walk away from the other, but his damage is insidious and like any damage is done by me to me and now I find I am even more reluctant to share the tender underbelly of my psyche with a lover, the desires kept hidden even from myself until opportunity presents itself, the want to discover new horizons inside my own head and my trust to let another in there for the journey. And I want, oh how I want to explore and share and discover each other and ourselves and where the road leads and crippled I won't let myself even feel the first glimmer of any of it because the anticipated disappointment is so much more painful than the real thing might be and so much more known than the possibility of success even for a moment, which would really be stunning, if only for that moment. So instead I shy away from exactly what I want because nothing lasts and the very idea of it ending keeps me from starting it and yet like testing the too hot bath I keep toeing into those waters because it is what I want, what I really very much oh so much want and I know that the crash is going to hurt so fucking much, it's not like I haven't been there before. What happened to that girl I was that could walk away so easily and so often from the inappropriate loves from the temporarily mine into the heart ripped and bleeding territory and emerge on the other shore still breathing and looking forward to the next adventure, what happened to that girl that knew that monogamy was impossible and didn't care and what happened to me that I can't even now recognize that it was me that happened to me and that nobody is going to change me but me and no matter what fucked up relationships I have had, I was a full participant in them and still can't choose to just be happy in the moment that I am happy instead of living in anticipation of the painful end of that happy. If I were just a little less aware or a little more selftrusting or just plain able to voice my own godsdamned wants and desires and needs and able to just live in the moment that I am in, maybe then I would let myself feel the delirious delicious possibility of that what if of wonderful rather than keeping myself trapped in the dubious safety of cynicism and doubt and denial. And the fact that the last time I let myself live in the what if it was a complete disaster should really not matter and have no bearing on my ability to dream even if it is distant and silly and unsupported, who cares that it may never come true, why am I so unable to allow myself to imagine what if, why have I killed all the want to dream, what the hell else is it that we do here in this little life if not to have dreams, even impossible ones.