On Monday night, dead night, Lydia defriended me. On Thursday, I thought, and thought and thought about her. As I walked home, I filled with a choking emptiness. Every Thursday between 9 pm and 1 am, I’ll have to get over her again. Something was there, defined as time for her and I together, and even in the short month it had been that way, it made a mark, like a painting on a wall that leaves eerie blankness when it’s taken down. I realized I felt lonely, lonely for a specific occurrence, for a substance all her own. And then I realized that I didn’t want her there – if she didn’t want to be there with me, I didn’t want to have her. It – she – wouldn’t mean anything. And then she called me, and said she might have been wrong about needing a break from me, and asked if she could come over. And then I said yes.
From Tuesday until today, I didn’t write. That time was weightless, hollow. When it was the present, happening live, it wasn’t (couldn’t have been) waiting – but now that there has been a shift, the flesh of this week seems outside of reality’s continuum, taking place in some other space in anticipation of the true timeline jumping in and continuing.
How odd it is, to describe and qualify events as though they didn’t happen to you, didn’t hurt you and give you strange senses, made no mark on you. There is evidence of how real it was, steps taken and processes to sort it out. Cursive notes with half-hearted gravitas; weighted text messages-
It’s the loss of opportunity rather than the loss of Lydia that grates… to know someone, to see and understand her life and her world, to broaden my own. To have a meaningful friendship is an opportunity in itself;
Attraction is a cool thing. It tells you nothing about a person, it means nothing at all. But it is a gateway, the maker of curiosity;
and letters, where letters meant for her are far off and disconnected and not hers to hold-
they all want to say it’s strange and you’re – wrong, but maybe it’s just incomprehensible, a mechanism in your soul’s body that clicks-clicks-clicks, forgetting it should churn, if it even had a way how.
if I start writing now, I may never stop; thoughts continue on, and where writing is concerned, sleep and sustenance and communication, where it is not fodder for wordspill, are aimless, get in the way.
when I dreamed of you, you were a feeling, a pink-yellow-neongreen-white-turquoise abstract painting, you drifted around me, I know your voice, you were there.
I wish I had been someone who… had less weight in my own soul, less to hold against the sky, less words, someone who could say “the world is a beautiful thing”, who could say “fuck you”, who could write “goddamn your face though” and be like “my stupid friend who wasn’t my stupid friend stopped being my stupid friend” and regret it all later and feel immature – but I’m not…
I’m trying to find something that says it isn’t okay and you can’t continue this way, but civility is accession and ignoring you is stubborn and watching you is desperate and wow, you’ve mapped your whole world in such a way that anyone who disagrees with your methods is wrong…
It happened, and it now stirs in a blind moment, feeling around for purchase. Today, it sounds like this-
I’m so happy right now. It’s interesting, taking the same thoughts and feelings and currency in my mind of one person, and looking at how very different they are depending on what I have with and who I am to that person. A simple switch – it took two days to get over her, but the Thursday feeling of needing her there, simply to do nothing with me – it was still there. Having her encroaching on the cloud of my mind was hurtful, poisonous, when there was nothing of her to look forward to. Now I’m thinking of her; earlier today she was thinking of me. The thought brings a smile, is noticed, and floats away. I can live easy knowing that I’ll be spending time with her again soon. It’s strange, that feeling; to be alright alone because you aren’t alone. It wraps around, subconsciously stilling worry, quietly breathing and telling me nothing is wrong.