days gone by

No, this isn't about zombies.
Though I can see why you'd think that.

These past few days—hell, the past week—has been pretty great. You wouldn’t think this, of course, reading these blog posts. My blog has come to the point of being reserved for, more-or-less, current issues in my life. These may very well be peripheral issues—such as everything with The Girl—but by writing about them, those who don’t interact with me on a daily basis will think this is consuming me, driving me stark raving mad. Absolutely not true. Nevertheless, this week has been spent with countless trips to The Anchor and page after page of scribbled journaling, my attempts at trying to get to the root of why all this has affected me deeply (hell, I gave myself an anxiety attack in the process, for whatever that’s worth). And while I know that any residual feelings are nostalgic in nature and anchored by deeper things going on in the depths of my heart; and while I know that it’s not The Girl in the spotlight by my Dream; and while I know that my heart’s affixed not to her as she is but to her as she became in my mind; and while I know all of this, it doesn’t make it hurt any less. I imagine her excited about seeing him; I want her to be like that with me. I see her getting married down the road, and I see myself thinking that she could be marrying me, but (a) I wasn’t good enough or (b) it was my fault it didn’t work out. Which all seems quite gloomy, until I slap myself across the face by realizing that I genuinely don’t care at all.

My stoic side seeks to beat down my romantic, hopeful side, cursing me for my apparent effeminacy (which is really just a sort of internal hypocrisy, the tension between Hope and Stoicism bleeding into my daily life). My stoic side certainly has logic on its side, and it definitely has the upper-hand. Unfortunately these journals don’t bear full witness. The pain as I write it comes off as overwhelming, but that’s not how it is. Many things have caused me to weep over the years, but this isn’t one of them. I haven’t shed a single tear. The pain is quiet rather than deafening, occasional rather than constant, a dull twinge in the heart, a fleeting shadow over the present moment. These pains come and then go as quick as they came, like a guilt-ridden first-timer in a European hostel. They’re just part of moving on, and lacing them with any extra meaning is absurd. All the questioning—“Did I fuck it up? Did I ruin what we had?” (knowing that I didn’t, and the culprits lie with those who care least and make all but any sort of effort)—is part of moving on. She’s got a new job and is making new friends, and the same is happening here. We’re getting lost in our new lives; she’s just a few steps ahead of me.

In all honesty, things are actually going quite well: I’m happy, energized, hopeful. But that stuff isn’t fun to write about, and so I default to stuff like this. And because this issue is (at the moment) fading to nothing, it’s unworthy of this “noteworthy” status. Old news from a different era, no cause for discomfort except that of nostalgic value. Unless she comes to bear on my life in a somewhat-significant manner, we’ll call it a day.