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I'll never be good enough for you. You don't care, you won't know, and soon it won't matter anyway. You of all people, who inadvertently taught me that this is possible--I know it won't matter to me someday, either. Oh, but I always think "This time will be different." That sentence gets in my way.
I hesitate to write these things even here, in a space that's "mine" and one that few read. But there's a reason why I refused to write your name in here (only twice or three times did I ever so do) even though I tell my own secrets freely. The written word for me has always held more importance than the spoken word. When Ben would tell me very nice things I'd wish he'd written them instead, and those were the things I'd always go back to--the nice things he had emailed or mailed. For me then the decision to write something down is always a very weighty one. These words are the ones I remember. Today I turned on the radio in the car all alone and it was playing, to my complete shock, "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the whoevers on 101.9, which I still think of as the smooth jazz station. That song is dangerous. It reminds me of all the things I haven't written down but oh how I've wanted to--
(it's just hard when you've lived out one of your biggest fantasies with someone who's not interested in you. i know i make a big deal of it but)
I owe you an email big-time; for once you've been much more polite than I about this communication thing. But I really don't know what I'm going to say. Something that you wrote affected me really deeply--made me angry, even--and even I am not quite sure why. You don't understand. I just never thought I would feel this way again, and you don't know how much that frightened me. Now I feel free, yet I prove my favorite quote true: El primer acto del hombre libertado ha de ser fojarse nuevas cadenas.
The first act of the liberated man must be to forge himself new chains.
And now I sound like I'm sixteen, talking about chains and things and--Pobre de mim, que só sei te amar!
I hesitate to write these things even here, in a space that's "mine" and one that few read. But there's a reason why I refused to write your name in here (only twice or three times did I ever so do) even though I tell my own secrets freely. The written word for me has always held more importance than the spoken word. When Ben would tell me very nice things I'd wish he'd written them instead, and those were the things I'd always go back to--the nice things he had emailed or mailed. For me then the decision to write something down is always a very weighty one. These words are the ones I remember. Today I turned on the radio in the car all alone and it was playing, to my complete shock, "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the whoevers on 101.9, which I still think of as the smooth jazz station. That song is dangerous. It reminds me of all the things I haven't written down but oh how I've wanted to--
(it's just hard when you've lived out one of your biggest fantasies with someone who's not interested in you. i know i make a big deal of it but)
I owe you an email big-time; for once you've been much more polite than I about this communication thing. But I really don't know what I'm going to say. Something that you wrote affected me really deeply--made me angry, even--and even I am not quite sure why. You don't understand. I just never thought I would feel this way again, and you don't know how much that frightened me. Now I feel free, yet I prove my favorite quote true: El primer acto del hombre libertado ha de ser fojarse nuevas cadenas.
The first act of the liberated man must be to forge himself new chains.
And now I sound like I'm sixteen, talking about chains and things and--Pobre de mim, que só sei te amar!
