A while back, I wrote this following blog with the intent to publish it the following morning. When I woke that next morning, I felt similar to the drunkard who finds that his courage, along with the alcohol rushing through his veins, has vanished. A friend of mine who did read it, and encouraged me to publish it, and since the whole purpose of these blogs is show a side of yourself that otherwise might not be seen, I have reconsidered my initial decision. Of course you have to decide just how honest to be, which can be troublesome at times. Either way, for whatever it is worth, here is what I wrote:
November 20, 2:14am
Earlier this evening I received word from an old friend. It has been a while to say the least, and I suggested she give the old online journal a read as a way to catch up. She said she’d rather not because she “knows how personal those things can get.” That really made me consider some of the things that I write, because while my blogs are at times certainly some of my more emotionally naked thoughts I generally write with a sort of detachment and hide in many ways behind my sarcasm and passive humor. Not that there is anything wrong with that. All writing is a picture that the writer paints and it is colored with false colors and true colors just alike. I have no idea if that makes sense, but I just got done writing this about Sarah. Perhaps it’s entirely inappropriate to post this, but it’s part of me and I care about her so much. So I’ll just post it because if nothing else, it locks my thoughts down onto the page. That’s what is so great about writing in general: you can take the seemingly chaotic events and random thoughts in your head and commit them to black and white, divorcing them from their inherently ephemeral nature. But honestly I struggle with this everyday, which is infuriating because it makes me feel so selfish and as though I’m spending my time on something that perhaps does not deserve my time. I can’t quiet put my finger on it. A large part of me feels so happy and sees this wonder and beauty in things, and the other is held down by this. It’s like a stone that I can’t roll off.
I always felt safer when she was there. It was a general feeling that had nothing to do with particulars that made me feel as though things would last. Particulars, or small things, make up memories and are things you can hold on. Little embers that sparkle in eternal resistance against the darkness that can consume you when you lose someone. That general feeling of safety that enveloped me for so long came from just knowing she was there, that she was breathing my breath, and I hers, as our hearts were locked in rhythm, beating the same beat. Even our tears were each other’s to cry. Now that feeling is gone and the absence smothers the glowing embers of my memories of her. I close my eyes and try to remember something, anything, and find nothing. That space that was filled up by her presence, that part of your soul that foolishly believed it would hold onto her forever reaches and grabs but finds nothing but emptiness. It creates a void that feels so big that it seems at times like it will swallow you whole if you don’t stop fighting it, telling yourself over and over that it will pass. This too will pass. This too will pass. This too will pass. It looses its meaning.
Some stories shouldn’t be told the way they happened. Some stories are best told in the sunset of nostalgia, that is the to say the way they are remembered. It’s an addiction really. Nostalgia is an addiction. But like many addictions the body, the mind, becomes so dependent upon it that removing the rose-colored glasses and seeing things how they really were is a debilitating notion. I know there was good in her, there was good in me, and there was good in us-I say that with as much objectivity as I can muster. So the few memories, or stories, or embers that fight on, are told from a view that is skewed. I’m haunted by the memory that I remembered her wrong.
I get so mad at myself sometimes when I allow my time and thoughts to be stolen by something that has lost hope, or lost its love. With all the love and beauty in the world its so defeating that my energies are dissipated in such a futile manner. You learn ways to try and cope. You write. It’s cathartic they say. Nothing. You talk to friends and paint them pictures, making yourself into a perfect guy. Absurd. You drink coffee until you are shaking and hammer away on the guitar. The notes float bounce from wall to wall until finally, defeated, they melt away. Again, nothing. You run and lift weights until your lungs and muscles are filled with battery acid. Masochistic. You read until your eyes sink to the back of your skull. Pointless. You listen to music. Ahh, now you’re getting somewhere. It’s not so much music as it is medicine Kurt Cobain said. Of course, it wasn’t enough medicine in the long run was it?
Ultimately, after it all, you end up at the same point. You end up at yourself. As a rational, educated, strong person you know things are going to be okay. Time is relentless and as much of an enemy as it is now it eventually frees you from pain. It’s strange isn’t it? So you wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.
They say that if you love somebody
You have got to set them free
But I would rather be locked to you
Than live in this misery
They say that time will make
All of this go away
But it’s time that has taken my tomorrows
And turned them into yesterdays
-Ben Harper
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