Because he had the luxury of forgetting, because he flowed merrily along with what life gave him. I collected every little memory and strung them carefully on a thread, dragging them along as I walked. I stiffly held oars and shields and shovels, digging out my own way. I looked warily at every hand that was held out, unsure at first. But I'd taken his and let him flow with me, then let go when I was supposed to.
Nothing has changed and everything has changed. I hadn't counted on becoming who I am, new parts of me awakened and now despairing over loss. The other part only furrows its brows and digs on.
He knew it would be harder on me. In the course he'd found out just how vulnerable I was, taking hit after hit and going on. All that rubbish about it making you stronger - how? It wears away you and you rebel, start expecting the world to make things right, because you have given up. He gave me everything he was and more.
Fear, fear that I've emptied the bank and nothing is left for me in the future. Desperation because I want exactly what I had back - and the part of me that thought I could live with anything is lost. Because now I have demands, and expectations, and needs.
Sticking my oar into the ground as an anchor does nothing but draw long lines and cracks that open up memories and love and need and blind me, rendering me desolate and useless. So much fear. So much hope. Kicking myself because I thought I could do it. And I have, and I will, and I could never regret it, but where do I pin the blame for the pain? Where do I express it? How?
I shouldn't have reread my last words to him. They are the most beautiful thing I've ever written. I know now what difference emotion and experience brings to your writing - what I wrote before was a hollow imitation of life.
What I'm living now.
Nothing has changed and everything has changed. I hadn't counted on becoming who I am, new parts of me awakened and now despairing over loss. The other part only furrows its brows and digs on.
He knew it would be harder on me. In the course he'd found out just how vulnerable I was, taking hit after hit and going on. All that rubbish about it making you stronger - how? It wears away you and you rebel, start expecting the world to make things right, because you have given up. He gave me everything he was and more.
Fear, fear that I've emptied the bank and nothing is left for me in the future. Desperation because I want exactly what I had back - and the part of me that thought I could live with anything is lost. Because now I have demands, and expectations, and needs.
Sticking my oar into the ground as an anchor does nothing but draw long lines and cracks that open up memories and love and need and blind me, rendering me desolate and useless. So much fear. So much hope. Kicking myself because I thought I could do it. And I have, and I will, and I could never regret it, but where do I pin the blame for the pain? Where do I express it? How?
I shouldn't have reread my last words to him. They are the most beautiful thing I've ever written. I know now what difference emotion and experience brings to your writing - what I wrote before was a hollow imitation of life.
What I'm living now.
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