I like the world when it’s just me and my thoughts.
In many ways you wouldn’t understand, and I can’t describe, in my head, 2010-12 has been a long, winding year of firsts. Yes, I said year, because that’s what it feels like, and yet… It feels like a lifetime. A very long lifetime.
My thoughts are rampaging right now.
So… This is my open letter to you.
I wish I could say I didn’t have a past. Sometimes, my past sucks because it hurts you. It’s not something that I can help. I wish it didn’t, but I don’t regret anything. I can’t help that I have a past. I can’t help thinking that my past is beautiful. But that’s just me as a person, because I don’t do regrets, and I’ve never done regrets. I appreciate every aspect of my life, whether it’s good or bad. Does that make me wildly optimistic and naive? Probably. But I like thinking that I’m happy, and sometimes, I fool even myself so expertly that I can’t tell emotions apart anymore.
I’ve experienced many firsts with you. Maybe things you might have glossed over, or thought unimportant, but were deeply significant to me. In my head, you’re the ultimate, and I find myself wishing upon stars and hoping against hope that what we have lasts. I think I read somewhere once that to know someone’s the one is when you can not-quite-see futures with them, and by God, is the future I not-quite-see with you beautiful.
And wouldn’t it be nice if imagined futures could last? But… those are the saddest thoughts. The not-quite realities that leave you bitter with sweet longing, because they show you what could possibly be.
Somedays, when the skies are blue and the Sun’s warm arms touch my skin through the myriad fabrics I pile on to escape the Canadian winds, it’s your face I imagine smiling at me, and your laugh I hear, and your hand I wish I was holding. That’s a first for me, did you know that? Thinking about someone like that? Because when I say something, I mean every word. Sometimes, it scares me, the idea that you might not. But I hate thinking that way, because I like thinking that I know you.
Today, I realized I didn’t.
Not really. Not in the little, superficial ways, and maybe to you that’s stupid. Maybe I’m being ridiculous. And petty. I don’t know anymore, and… I realize that I say that a lot lately. I don’t know. But shouldn’t I know? Shouldn’t I know what your desktop screen saver looks like, or what size your shoes are, or even just… be a part of your facebook page? Posts with your name dotting mine?
See, I have this image of what other people do, and a checklist that normal couples seem to abide by and somehow… You and I fall so below that distinction, we’re not even on that radar. It worries me. I keep it quiet, and today, it occurred to me just how much I keep quiet around you. For fear of your reaction. For fear or what you might think. Out of fear that you’ll leave me. And there’s just… so much fears when it comes to you but shouldn’t I know by now? I feel like I should know.
I wrote a new poem today, because I felt empty. I wrote about the difference between being lonely and alone, of the necessities of smiles and of facades and cliques and dreams and expectations. I wrote of in-betweens and impressionisms and as I wrote, my mind wandered. Back to the arching walls of the Met in New York. The vibrant canvases staring out at me, my heart pounding as my feet raced through those hallowed halls and for the briefest second, I wanted to be that girl again. Shiny, happy and new. So full of passion, and promise. I wanted to be that girl who was alive and not tired, broken, jaded or afraid.
When we met this summer, I was broken. In every way imaginable.
You gave me a tiny piece of the old me back.
You might not remember this, but… I think the moment I started falling was when you told me that you didn’t know why, but you felt protective of me, like you wanted to take care of me. I’ve been taking care of myself for so long, and looking out for others that I needed someone to say that to me, and you did. The problem is, I’m discovering more and more each day how much words mean exactly. And the older I get, the more poems I write, the more ideas I think through in my head, the more I realize how little I care for words anymore. How little the titles mean when all I want is the action, and to me, that’s all that counts.
But at the end of everyday, at the end of fights, at the end of everything really, you walk away, and somehow, even though I know you have to, I can’t help but feel left behind, and God, I wish I didn’t. I wish I cared a little less, or maybe I wish I cared more. I can’t tell anymore, and I’m just…
Tired. With all these thoughts swirling through my head.
Tired of wondering.
Tired of trying.
Tired of being.
Some nights, when the world is quiet, and it’s just me and my thoughts, I wonder what it’ll be like if I just went to bed and never woke up. I wonder if I’ll be relieved, or if I’ll be filled with deep regret, and longing. I wonder if I’ll be missed. I wonder if I’ve made an impact on someone’s life. I wonder a lot of things. Mostly though, I wish I could turn off the thoughts in my head. I wish I could just be content.
And that’s another thing. I’m realizing there’s a difference between being content and happy.
I wish a lot of things lately.
I wish there was some degree of permanence in my life. There isn’t. I wish I was enough for you. That I am in enough for you. I’m not. I wish I had the panache to write my thoughts out coherently, so that there’s no room for any misunderstandings or misinterpretations, but… There’s so much in the in-betweens. So much in the lines unsaid and unseen and I can’t write anymore.
I need new words.