Beginnings of Things

There was always this fear, that had come to haunt me with any other girl. What happens when I get what I want? What then? When I get the girl, when she falls in love with me - what more is there to achieve? I know, that's a terrible way to look at a relationship with someone you supposedly care about. But then again, when I look back, how many of these women did I actually care for?

It was a feeling of stagnation. Of no moving forward. If I wasn't working towards something, why put in the effort? Why would I even consider it worth my interest?

Apathy in love.

So maybe part of the reason I took so long to make my move on Nichole was not just because I was "enjoying our drawn-out courtship" - although I certainly did. Maybe there was a fear, rooted deeply in me, of the possibility that once I had her, I would no longer want her. Talk about a vicious cycle.

Years later, I would feel bad. I would look at these once-innocent girls, who no longer annoyed or frustrated me as they had in our relationship. I would hear about what I had done to them, how I had broken them. How I had changed them, to be less vulnerable. We had moved past each other, but I was forever the man that had changed them into someone more cautious, less trusting. The first heartbreak, if you will. But they meant nothing to me, although my heart - or my head, who knows - had once told me they meant everything...Before I got them, of course.

And that couldn't happen with Nichole. I could have never looked myself in the face if I had done that to her. Here was someone whom I genuinely cared about. Someone I loved and adored. My best friend. The only one, not related by blood, who would never turn me away. My passing flings with other girls did not even affect me as much as one of her smiles. I suppose that says it right there.

Nonetheless, the fear existed. I was so afraid that it would turn out like every other relationship that I was paralyzed from even trying.


The fact of it was that we had never had the chance to simply be together. Which makes me wonder if this particular fear is just another thing that we share. When I think of her past relationships - not something I make a habit of - I cannot think of one that meant something to her, that affected her the way it did whatever boy she was with. We seemed only to profess our love in the ending moments, the last chances. I think that both of us are so afraid, so scarred by what has happened before, by what we assume to be our own fault, and so deeply dependent on one another that we rather flirt out our unrequited love than risk losing one another to this...infection, this brain and heart disease.

Now and then, I'm struck by the thought that perhaps no other relationship has ever been able to fulfill either of us because we are meant for each other. Maybe it's not something inherently wrong with us, but rather something that our hearts are trying to express. Maybe, as our friendship has seemed to prove, there will always be a desire for more, never a feeling of boredom. Maybe, with her, I can simply be. Be happy.

I distract myself, back to imagining the way it felt to kiss her. There is a feeling of joy. Words like 'content' and 'satisfied' do not convey the emotion. They wouldn't cover the raw feeling of hunger and insatiable desire for move, as if after exploring every emotion in her heart, every thought in her brain, and every inch of her body, there was still more to discover.

Sunday Morning

It was early on a Sunday morning. 4:27 as the clock ticked away from light beer and heavy blunts.

I had stayed awake for several reasons. No one had bothered to turn off the light yet, and the fluorescent was burning into my retinas. My roommate was watching returns of Blue Mountain State. I had napped earlier, sometime after the concert but before I knew what to make of it all. Lying down would have meant thinking of the girl and her friend whose bed was always open.

The last time I wore those jeans, with small hands tracing black waves. You're glancing at your white watch and you only have so long to be teased.

I'm waiting for a long car ride in the afternoon, as we burn papers and step on forgotten drinks.

Didn't we decide that no feelings would be involved? I'm retracing to a quote, about how no battle are ever won. They're not even fought; they only reveal to us our own folly and despair.

I want to write my fictions, but where to start and how to frame it is too puzzling, at this time, at this place in life.

All she wanted was a friend to listen, but the reciprocal was too damaged and already gone.



I'm tracing the scars back to a summer day. As fireworks beckon, as I'm reliving picnics and pools, a boy with California good looks blows smoke into your face and takes away that burden you've been carrying. You can't even recall his last name, but what does it matter, anyhow? We're reaching the peak of apathy.

As all our music cries out in the name of love, we close our eyes and let the bass reverberate through us, finding passion in the vibrations. You've reached a lawless place where love does not exist, except for in our memories and fictions.

MM

I couldn't allow myself to dwell on it.

That was the conscious decision.

Something about how it took years to build up trust and only a few seconds to destroy it.

But trust wasn't the issue.

It was that she didn't seem to care at all.

It had always been an up-and-down kind of friendship and the truth of it was that I had never quite expected to fizzle out as had been the case.

A polar relation and it ended in silence.
From the closest friends, from long drives and shitty TV shows.
To sarcastic well-wishing, to spitting words and overdosing too late in the night, too early in life.


Years later, when I got tired of the effort, when it was too much trying and not enough reward, never any give-back, when I gave up.

There's no emotion in it any longer. We have both moved forward in our lives, found others to replace that place in our hearts. I am okay with it. I am at peace. There is no hurt, nor does any ache disturb my sleep at night. It just happened; life happened. We grew busy and dedicated time to what was important. To what we believed was important.

The mood only strikes when my mind wanders to the past. When I think of what had once been. What was good, what got ruined by a crush, what we rejected, what angered her, what we reconciled, what was good again, what were all the ways we changed yet still fit, and what slowly but unmistakably passed us by as she found solace in an old boyfriend and I found passion in intellectualism and hallucinogens.