I'd sell your heart to the junkman, baby / For a buck, for a buck
To those few who pay attention, it would appear my previous entry provided a stark mood contrast to the one that preceded it. Though I might have stated I "fell in love with a woman I never have second thoughts about," unfortunately, she did have doubts about me. Seconds thoughts were had and in hardly any time at all, she fell out of love. It had all been going so well, though I suppose all heart-breaking endings need a good measure of hope. Further explanation seems irrelevant. It was over and I found myself on a plane instead of driving a moving van, leaving New York earlier than I had planned and with so much less than I had hoped.
She was what I was looking for in so many more ways than previous romantic interests. We had both told others, in the halycon beginning of our relationship, that we had finally found an opposite sex version of ourselves, which I, at least, had long wanted to find. My tried and true method of focusing on all the negatives after a romantic affair ends has been, at best, useless. She gave me little ammunition to distance myself with; everything was great right until she stopped loving me, no earlier. That the end was not borne of malice or deceit (I had never known her to lie to me, over anything) meant I could hardly be angry at her, let alone summon up hate. Those first few days after were not good. The emptiness seemed omnipresent, even more so because of the spaces I had cleared for her in my apartment. My apartment was half-filled, as was I. I tried to understand how things could change so quickly and it never made sense, even knowing many of the factors that colluded together to make her feel differently. I'll never really understand. It will always be a mystery in some way.
In the midst of my brooding, I recalled something I had written long ago (now edited for brevity) and which I have reiterated in various forms since then:
"More than anything right now, I want to get in a relationship, honestly fall in love, and then have it end badly ... and see how I handle it... I want to see if I can cut clean from a failed relationship, or if I'll sort of hang on as ... everyone seems to. I wonder if I could."
The remembrance of that thought alone was enough to snap me out of it. Was I going to waste another summer, another year, like I had when Jenna died? I loved this woman more than I did any woman before her but she no longer loved me; no amount of anything would ever make things the way they were. All the memories of good times and the longing-filled daydreams of the times to come would have to wither away -- and quickly. It was over, it was done. That was the only thing that mattered. The world doesn't stop for anyone.
It's been seven weeks now. There's been a flash of heartache here and there, a hard night a handful of times, but the break was true and fast. That which seemed unbreakable dissolved with barely more resistance than a gust of wind. Contact that was once daily has turned into a weekly phone call and an email or two. I sometimes wonder if she feels or thinks much about us. What was it that was there, in our hearts? Love is a creation, not a discovery.
Letting go is a useful talent, one of my few, but it's one you hope never to gain the experience to become so adept at.
That's not to say there aren't consequences to the end. The restlessness has come back. The long drives, the long nights, the nature of time becoming simultaneously too fast and too slow. Old companions, all. She had kept those impatient devils at bay. She was my refuge, my ward against the world. Now, once more unto the breach, full of discontent, threadbare passions and blurred visions.
Here we go again.
She was what I was looking for in so many more ways than previous romantic interests. We had both told others, in the halycon beginning of our relationship, that we had finally found an opposite sex version of ourselves, which I, at least, had long wanted to find. My tried and true method of focusing on all the negatives after a romantic affair ends has been, at best, useless. She gave me little ammunition to distance myself with; everything was great right until she stopped loving me, no earlier. That the end was not borne of malice or deceit (I had never known her to lie to me, over anything) meant I could hardly be angry at her, let alone summon up hate. Those first few days after were not good. The emptiness seemed omnipresent, even more so because of the spaces I had cleared for her in my apartment. My apartment was half-filled, as was I. I tried to understand how things could change so quickly and it never made sense, even knowing many of the factors that colluded together to make her feel differently. I'll never really understand. It will always be a mystery in some way.
In the midst of my brooding, I recalled something I had written long ago (now edited for brevity) and which I have reiterated in various forms since then:
"More than anything right now, I want to get in a relationship, honestly fall in love, and then have it end badly ... and see how I handle it... I want to see if I can cut clean from a failed relationship, or if I'll sort of hang on as ... everyone seems to. I wonder if I could."
The remembrance of that thought alone was enough to snap me out of it. Was I going to waste another summer, another year, like I had when Jenna died? I loved this woman more than I did any woman before her but she no longer loved me; no amount of anything would ever make things the way they were. All the memories of good times and the longing-filled daydreams of the times to come would have to wither away -- and quickly. It was over, it was done. That was the only thing that mattered. The world doesn't stop for anyone.
It's been seven weeks now. There's been a flash of heartache here and there, a hard night a handful of times, but the break was true and fast. That which seemed unbreakable dissolved with barely more resistance than a gust of wind. Contact that was once daily has turned into a weekly phone call and an email or two. I sometimes wonder if she feels or thinks much about us. What was it that was there, in our hearts? Love is a creation, not a discovery.
Letting go is a useful talent, one of my few, but it's one you hope never to gain the experience to become so adept at.
That's not to say there aren't consequences to the end. The restlessness has come back. The long drives, the long nights, the nature of time becoming simultaneously too fast and too slow. Old companions, all. She had kept those impatient devils at bay. She was my refuge, my ward against the world. Now, once more unto the breach, full of discontent, threadbare passions and blurred visions.
Here we go again.