I felt I could talk to him as I never could with anyone, as we didn’t just talk gossip or plans. I was always interested to know what he thought about things. He never did bore me.
I hadn’t thought. That was the trouble. I didn’t think. I just recklessly assumed. With the arrogance and stupidity of teens, and so I still find it hard at times to come to terms with the speed with which my life has changed so dramatically.
And all because of one thing. The one thing that is…
…why on earth can’t I stop thinking about him? Why am I driven by this self-destructive urge to link everything I’m doing with him?
why do I, to think…To want…to imagine. Okay, the sheer inappropriateness of my unwelcomed thoughts is simply appalling.
Last night, I felt myself tensing. Outwardly and inwardly, as though I was trying to lock out my thoughts and feelings–and not just lock them out, but to sqeeze the very life out of them as well. Because I am afraid of their continual existence. For centuries, out of ignorance and prejudice, man had sought to control what it feared by destroying it.
Am I doing the same? Am I really afraid of the effect he is having on me? Then why am I so reluctant to accept the fact that he doesn’t want me or love me. If I am so scared, our separation should make me feel anything but qualm and regret.
But What was the point doing it? Emailing him?. It was over between us, whatever it was. So over that there hadn’t been a single night when I had not fallen asleep thinking of him, nor a single day that hadn’t been shadowed by my bitter and dazed pain? Just how over was that?
I was trying really hard not to read his messages, I didn’t even know when I unarchived it but I had and like pandora with the lid of the box lifted, I was unable to control my own curiosity to see what lay inside. Intellectual stimulation–What we shared, not love, not tenderness and most certainly not the kind of almost spiritual bond I had stupidly deluded myself into thinking we had.
Love is, or should be, two halves of one whole. I know my own half for what it is, but only he knows his. I had thought, mistakenly perhaps that his half matched mine in its absoluteness and constancy, because meeting him, has had a profound effect on me in more ways than one.
I have no idea what he is thinking and/or planning to do. And even less why I should be like this–trusting and hoping and something that comes perilously close to the love I had spent the last few months furiously denying existed.
“It isn’t as simple as that”, “I will find a way, I’m determined, I promise”.My heart missed a heavy beat as it clung desperately to the fragile hope of his words. I ached with a longing to be able to believe him, but I wasn’t going to let myself give in to that weakness.
Not a third time.”He might be manipulating your vulnerable emotions” I thought warily, because my sanity is all I have left. What am I gonna do, cause I tried to confront him, a ‘please choose your words carefully’ I got.
The shock of his concise answer slicing through me, snapping the chain with which I had been leashing my emotions. I could hardly think or reason logically for the pain that swamped me, what a fool I had been—to believe his lies about falling and being in love with me.
When I had told him that I spent about an hour thinking bout what I could have possibly done wrong for him to do what he was doing he called me a liar and nausea gripped my stomach, and a pain like none I had ever previously known tore at me, to escape from my own pain and his distrust, desperately trying to tell myself it couldn’t hurt that bad, it didn’t matter that much but it did and even more so than I had originally thunk, I gave up. Or atleast, I thought I had.