These words that I write are my confession and I feel confident expressing them within the context of a pandemic’s roaming scourge, trusting that they will be strong enough to weather the inevitable scrutiny. I realize that with all that has happened, perhaps feelings or opinions of me have understandably changed. And that is okay. I acknowledge that there is a time for brutal honesty. And that there is a time for a gentler, though more unfamiliar, touch. I just could never successfully make that distinction.
People everywhere around me are hurting and breaking. And I am here on the sidelines, watching them hurt, with no practical avenues available to actually offer help. And that feeling of helplessness is mercilessly suffocating my spirit. It has me stuck and floundering in the isolating seas of this mandated distance, barely able to keep my head above the rising, turbulent waters of inebriated indecision.
I realize that I am deeply invested in situations over which I have no influence and that I am currently cursed by this segregating geography. Which really fucking sucks. Because there is nothing worse than witnessing someone you care about struggle while potentially helpful hands are anchored in malignant paralysis, too many miles away.
The meanings and intent behind my previous words have not changed, despite the contamination of tainted recent circumstances. Neither have the feelings inside my heart, or my head, currently hungover and pounding after that empty night spent unsuccessfully chasing down the complicated words at the bottom of another simple bottle.
I meant everything that I have ever said to you. Even though you never really seemed capable of believing me. Or maybe you just didn’t want to believe me, since the honesty of my actions never quite fit into the scripted scene already written inside your head.
I do not feel that I have done anything particularly wrong or inappropriate that would warrant this rigid complication. My worst crime perhaps was becoming too invested this time around. But my dreams became accidentally tethered to your impossible impracticality. And that is why it hurts even more watching them eviscerated inside the vacuum pull of your callously scorched ghosting.
For the second fucking time.
And it is difficult for me to see that as anything other than…cruel.
All I have ever tried to be is a relatively decent person, one willing to genuinely listen and to make whatever sacrifices were required in order to help those around me. But…I can’t make that someone want the help. And while I understand the need for space, I also realize the importance of friendships and the security they often provide. I am simply trying to be that improbable lifeline, though you stubbornly refuse to grab the many lines that I type out.
I will always be here for you, though I know that your instincts are to run. As are mine. So I am going to trust the louder angels of my restless nature and run away from this hateful little city, so full of sticky tragedy and baseless accusations. I am going to keep right on running until I am far from this disappointing, racist country with its cancerous culture and its too many ticky-tacky people.
And I already miss you- I think that maybe I somehow have always missed you. I would have loved to have had that meaningful, Hollywood cliché goodbye, shared at the ending cut of our final onscreen scene. But, we never really found the time for that, either. And I fear that oversight will haunt me far longer than I ever could have anticipated.
Because I can already feel the sting.
I intimately hope that you might reconsider your isolation. And not the one caused by this fucking grueling pandemic, but the one that has lingered for years within your fragile insecurities and festering doubts, those too many dark voices of your unpredictable nature, constantly calling out the fragile cautions in a life barely lived.
The sun is supposed to shine the brightest where I am running. It could burn even brighter, if you were there to share the ridiculousness of this adventure with me. But I realize that you would never really leave, even if you did desire that change. Because your feet are stuck in the clay of cloying, self-imposed adult responsibility and your battered heart has seemingly turned to weighted stone. At least when it comes to the consideration of our conjoined intent.
I also know that you do not wish to be burdened with the exhaustion of having to love me. You have seen first-hand the ugliness I exude when frustrated by the reticence of hesitant words. You have heard the sobbing, snot-covered cries of a soul broken by a terminal diagnosis made in the earliest formative years of a young heart’s first learning. And I realize just how horridly unattractive that obligation appears, going far beyond what most people might reasonably tolerate.
So I cannot blame you for lacking that commitment. Because I don’t really want to love me, either.
But there is little else left for me, here at the coughing edge of an expiring year’s last whimper. This City of Wayne is rejecting the integrity of my better intentions and I no longer fit within the passive-aggressiveness of its silent narrative. The underlying structure of its darker objectives have shifted, so I have to run before that damning judgement finally falls, forever trapping me under the weight of a crumbled empire’s last spectacle.
By virtue of my inconvenient temptation to linger here unnecessarily, I know that I have to force myself to run. Run as far, and as fast, as the unpredictable fates allow, in the final flurried abandonment of a lifetime’s worth of broken dreams.
If you still wanted to run, it is not too late. But soon, it will be. And choices about taking those chances will have to be made.
And I really hope that you eventually choose to run, too. Because I really don’t think my heart could bear having to leave you behind…