journal · letter


My Dear,

How laughable is it that the best parts of my days are the parts where you speak to me? Also the worst, because I see the change in your demeanor, the distance between us, grown far apart. And I remember all the things you said, like I could ask you anything, you wanted me to know you, and feel that moments like those are long gone. I no longer have those rights, and I silently lament. Now you seem intent on proving to me that I do not and could never possibly really know or understand who you are. In the most objective sense, this is probably true. It is rather impossible to truly know somebody, because you cannot enter their mind, feel precisely as they do, or break the physical barriers that separate us from one another. Your life is a story that I will never be able to live myself, but meeting each other in the middle in a mutual appreciation and understanding of one another, that is nothing to laugh at.

The inability to always predict your actions and reactions to things is not indicative of whether or not I “get you,” in my opinion. Knowing someone isn’t really about getting every last detail anyway, that would take more than a lifetime and/or technology that humans do not currently possess. It’s about observing, listening, taking what you know and using it to relate as best you can, keeping an open mind, and accepting everything for what it is, good and bad alike. And I don’t think I’ve necessarily failed in doing that, because I have always done my absolute best to consider your perspective, to understand your point of view, to walk in your shoes, as it were. I am me and you are you, so although I may not always “get you” on every single level or at every possible moment, I’ve always made the effort, and respected your thoughts and feelings. It is a continuous process, “knowing” someone, and by all that is good and holy in this world, I swear that I have never ceased trying, and consider myself to have been at least moderately successful.

As for me, I do not know how to be this new, cordial, distant person that shows an equal interest in you as you do in them. I let you initiate, talk, search my mind for any response that will continue the conversation, but cannot, for the life of me, think of new material or be even remotely interesting. I grasp at words like straws and wonder if you’re talking to me because you miss me, or if you’re just being friendly, and have almost no doubt it is the latter. The former is just ridiculously wishful thinking, and I shouldn’t even be thinking it, but almost always can’t help myself. It’s funny, in a way, how dull I sound around you now, because of all the popularity I gained amongst people you introduced me to. It’s even sort of fun to be with them, it certainly passes the time, but I’d give it all away to have time with you again, for things to be like they were before you decided you couldn’t forgive me. I always had the feeling you’d reach that conclusion, that’s why I tried so hard, pushed so much, too much, clinging to keep what I was sure I was losing, and possibly speeding up the process inadvertently by doing so. My b, once again. I can’t seem to get it right since I met you, no matter what I do or don’t do.

To be frank, it frustrates the fuck out of me, which only makes things worse, because I have trouble keeping my mouth shut without emotions entering the picture at all. I can’t change the past or alter the present, it seems, so oh well. I can’t even get over you properly, like any normal person would. Instead I write pages upon pages that it is likely you will never read because this is dead and buried for you. But that small voice of hope says you might, you might do something like read this one day, change your mind about me, so I should not give up yet. My dear, there may come a day where I can leave you in the past, push my love for you back into some quiet corner of my soul and move forward, only looking back occasionally, in nostalgic fondness. But that day is not today, and feels a long time in the making. I hope, at the very least, that you are flattered, and not frightened, that someone spends so much time writing, thinking, and caring about you. I really, really do. If you never read this, at least my thoughts to you had somewhere to go, and at least I made an effort. You only live once, right? No regrets, Mi Querido, excepting that one.



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