I came here with full intent on writing another lighthearted “Girlfriend Checklist”. I even have a page of notes sitting in front of me I’ve been compiling. But then I (being stupid and self destructive) peeked at something not meant for me, and it…it just was. I don’t even know what to say. I guess I can say that I’ve had a little bit of a relationship set back tonight. Correction, I don’t have a relationship anymore to have a set back. What I saw was finality. There is nothing more final than a heart having moved on. It’s always been the ultimate end of things for me. It takes the person I was with to openly express interest in someone else for me to be able to completely close that door. Even then it takes time. But it at least gives me clarity, and despite what I’m sure will be arguments to the contrary, a little satisfaction. I knew first. Something awful will probably be said of that, like I created the situation, and perhaps I did. But I doubt it. It’s fine. It wasn’t that long, but it was fun while it lasted. It got bad. It dragged out poorly. Things happened. I lost a lot of face, and will for awhile yet reflect back on things I’ve said and done with a sense of shame. But it fades. I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in myself. Something fruitful in time will come along. I’m not looking, but I’m not not looking. I’m just not expecting. It had been a solid 2 years for my heart and head to attach to a person like that again. I hope another 2 doesn’t pass before I feel that way again, but it was for such a brief time such a GREAT, FULFILLING feeling that I’ll patiently wait it out for 100 years if I must. It may never come again. I’m not trying to be a sad sack with that, I know I’ll be happy and with someone again, but I honestly felt like I did when I was 16, with the French-Portland girl I’ve mentioned a handful of times on here. In that sense, it was even longer than 2 years. It was a different kind of passion. But it’s fine.
It’s not even heartbreak, or heartache. It feels more like a heart hardening. Or of recapturing. Not to be dramatic, but maybe re-imprisoning (I’m making up words now.) That’s probably the closet way to explaining how I feel. I keep thinking of Edmond Dantès, in his cold little cell at Château d’If. Just waiting for a better day. It doesn’t fit, I know. I’m not plotting some masterful revenge. But I just feel locked away now. A part of me goes away when I lose this. A part of me becomes very Patrick Bateman. That’s probably not making the case for me not being nuts, but I don’t mean killing prostitutes with chainsaws Patrick Bateman. I mean the weirdly philosophical Bateman, the cold, reserved, and what I always felt was a sad and lonley Patrick Bateman. This Patrick Bateman…
“There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable… I simply am not there”
Even that might be a little too dramatic. I don’t know. This all feels dramatic. I just needed to vent. It feels good to write. Blog, how I missed you. I haven’t written in you since all this started months ago. I’ll be back, I promise.
- Jeramie
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