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Wednesday, Jul. 23, 2003 9:27 pm

five years of love have turned into third person letters to each other through a desensitized medium and headache inducing staring at a bright screen. I read her life, her thoughts and feelings that she once would talk to me about over dinner, as we fell asleep [usually, my talking and her "shhh"ing me], or over the phone while we were at work, with a sickening voyeurism. Each word, increasing the feeling of an impending panic attack, waiting for the one sentence, the one thought, the one closing deal, that would crush that little bit of pain that had imbedded itself so deeply, I don't know what life would be like without it. How close she came to hitting that mark with her latest words. Throwing all the wrong I've done at me for the world to bare witness to, with a shrug of the shoulder and a pointing finger. To quote Kafka, "as though the shame of it must out live him."

Forgiveness is something that never came easy for her. How many more Mea Culpa's must I repeat?

All the wrong, and with what dignity I had left and with tears in my eyes, I admitted to doing. This is what I did, and I refill my heart with remorse every night before I sleep as a reminder of it. Her recent words, the bite in the bitterness of my drink.

My moves away, my changes are not because I am growing distain or hate for her. It's because she wants me to be a casual friend, to accept the demotion from general to grunt with a shit-eating grin and a shake of the hand. She expects me to switch it all off, and not love her like a really do. But I can't. I just can't do that. So the next option I'm faced with is staying as far away as possible because I know if I'm around, my idiot heart will make me say something like, "I'm like this because I'm madly in love with you."

I cannot stop reading her words. I cannot want to stop listening when she talks. I have to. A malicious craving for self-injury.
A strong lingering of desire to be there for her.
A suicidal ego.

I'm such a baby now, unsure and without confidence in how to proceed. Not knowing if something will taste sweet or poison me.

writing helps to cope and sometimes it only makes me feel worse. Regurgitating those sour and decaying emotions that have yet to be purged from my blood.

So I write third person words with her in plain sight, through a desensitized medium, headaches induced staring for minutes... hours, at a white box with something inside that is unknown if it will taste sweet or poison me.

Allow me to be bitter. Allow me to feel betrayed, by her but much more so by myself. Allow me her understanding that I make too many mistakes, but never let them go without atonement. Allow me to experiment with the full human spectrum, searching for the most painless way to cut my heart off of the lightly stenciled outline that is all I have left of her memory. Allow her to know, I'm trying real hard to hide the fact that I'm in still in love.

I never forgot the times she was miserable. I never dismissed her sadness. Five years ago, telling her I could feel her sadness, 2 months ago, trying to posture with certainty that the seperation was the right choice [crying feverishly when she was not around to release the tension of maintaining the act], are both just as fresh in my heart.

My faults lie in losing the tremendous sorrow of missing her when I was stuck in Kentucky. How I learned from that place, and how I squandered the wisdom for knowledge, the knowledge for turning my back on our problems. If only I could of missed her that much when I was 15 minutes away at work, or a night away at the bar. If only we knew when to make the right choices. If only I knew how dumb I really am.

Outwardly, I try to be stoic. To show her that I don't care anymore because it's the person she wants to see me be. Inside, my head and heart have stopped working together, and if she could see inside out, I would be indistinguishable from the random, gibbering, twitching crazy guy we pass by everyday on the street. A regular Spider.

because I'm still fighting. Not for her anymore. I'm fighting against myself now. I'm fighting againt what my love for her says I should do, and what she wants me to do. I'm stretched hundreds of miles across a barren, war-torn landscape, one end in retreat, one end in advance. And all I want is to be returned to normal, and put down anywhere, no matter, and breathe. At times, I feel as though I'm pulling myself back together. At other times, I'm yelling [laughing] in agony watching myself stretch again from one end to the other.

My robot-like body opens her third person words and I react with the slight evolution of a frown [it's all I'm capable of showing anymore. My body is tired of beating itself, my eyes have run dry]. Inside, another twitch and a mumble of incoherencies leaks into reality in the shape of words written in third person to her in plain sight, laying flatly on a desensitized screen in black & white.


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dland exuant omnes your voice drifts away into lost binary alleyways it echoes photography

last five:
A Winter Letter - Wednesday, Nov. 28, 2007
almost but not quite - Wednesday, Mar. 22, 2006
rural times, blue skies. it feels so warm over my hair - Wednesday, Jun. 01, 2005
smiles and gone - Monday, Feb. 07, 2005
I caught my love in North Carolina - Monday, Nov. 29, 2004

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