For You

Ryan reminded me—inadvertently, I'm sure—of how frustrated I am with this whole deal. And I don't think I made it clear to him exactly how this works. Although I'm not quite sure either. The only thing that's real right now are the few strands of hair long enough to enter my peripheral vision. It's in front of my face. And I really can't extend my consciousness much further than that. I've attached myself to anything and everything, hoping that it might travel away and take away a bit of my tiredness, my disappointment, my unrequited self. And I stuck myself to a million things with a billion strings drawn straight from the substance of my heart to something trivial and unnecessary (if you look at the grand scheme of things).

There are things that I really haven't asked myself very seriously. Actually, I have asked myself these things, I just haven't answered myself very seriously. I've avoided it. I've skirted it. I've traced the perimeter of the questioning with my finger and I've found my way around it, through the least existentially honest means possible. If you despise me for this, then I agree. This is not appropriate, nor well-mannered, behavior.

And for that I really ought to apologize.

But I can't. Because deep down, I really feel like you ought to apologize. Not you, but you. Because I tried really hard. I tried harder than I've ever tried in my life. There were times where I thought I should have given up, but then something inside me refused. Something inside me told me that this was worth it, that all my effort was going towards something meaningful. Something with substance. And the fact that I'm not saying these things, using the past tense, and making some conscious choice about temporality...well, it obviously means that you didn't think the same way I did about this.

I really tried. I gave so much of myself in the name of trying. And maybe that's why I feel like this. Maybe I've already given too much of myself. Maybe I'm less than what I was before all this happened. It certainly feels that way sometimes. Does that mean I can blame you? No. I don't think I can blame you. Because that would be creating some system of value for a sentience that really transcends it. My spectrum would be a false measurement of an immeasurable quality. Or quantity.

So now I feel bad. Now I feel like I'm putting things where they don't belong. Now I feel like whenever I open my mouth I might break something. And now I'm afraid of breaking everything. I'm afraid of upsetting some great cosmic balance that I can't sense with any of my ten senses. I round up for the sake of trying. I round up for the sake that things cannot be left at odds. Not here. Not with you.

Yet they are not even. But certainly they cannot be odd. So I would wonder about whether or not this really made any difference. Whether or not there was a Spain or whether or not this throb was true or whether or not you should make this true and not say such things to me. For these are breaking me, these things you say.

A "maybe" is just as bad as a great fang sinking into my shoulder and rendering this hand unable to write. But yet I write for that very fang, which has so deeply lodged itself into me that it is the only thing I have left to write about. I wish that these scales were turned, for I want to know what you think about what I think.

So this is still for you, but for me. For me to know whether or not I am anything anymore anyhow. For me to fill in the vague outline of a figure left by a terrible upheaval.

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