I’m 25 years old and terrified that half my life is over—or at least 1/3 of it—and I have nothing to show for it. Sure, I’ve accomplished more than most my age: college degree, self-reliance and self-sustainability, two published novels that have sold well, one even topping the “best of” lists in its genre (along with Stephen King and Cormac McCarthy, might I add). But that which I crave most—a family—remains no more than a fancy I fear to never be realized. I envision myself old and wrinkled, bitter and sad, sitting at this same diner writing these same things and having these same hopes and then dying alone and forgotten within the year. I feel trapped in the endless cycle of hope & disappointment paving the road to disillusionment, a road stretching towards the ever-closer destination of resignation. I’m ready (I think) for that “next step” in life: finding a shawty to hold me down, popping out some kids, being a Family Man. This is what I want, and I know who I want it with. But she doesn’t want that, and I’m really not surprised. I’ve been here countless times before, heard all these words Time & Again, words sprinkled with hope but ultimately deceptive. What hurts the most isn’t that she doesn’t want me; it’s a recurring theme in this life of mine, and the cold waters of stoicism snuff out any foolish hoping that she’ll wake up one morning and realize that what I want with her is what she wants with me. No, what hurts the most is that she is, by her own confession, where I’m at: she’s ready for that “next step,” ready to start off on that adventure, but not with me. What hurts is knowing that if her heart came alive like mine, it’d be the turning of the page and the advent of a new and more beautiful chapter in my—no, our—lives. But as it were, there’s no new chapter being written, just the same old chapter being drawn out, page-by-page, with new characters and subplots but a story ultimately going nowhere. I built in my head and heart a clandestine mansion where I could go room-to-room, peering in on different snapshots and scenes of life together, a prophetic labyrinth winding its way in circles going nowhere. This mansion, it’s built of fog and mirrors, and its foundation is a naïve hope. A mansion built on sand, quickly swept away with the rhythmic and merciless advance of reality. In my foolish hoping, with my head in the clouds, I dared to resurrect these dreams of my youth only to remember, quite painfully, why I buried them in the first place.
Even now in this diner at 8:44 AM and with a cup of coffee and a smoldering cigarette, even as this pen floods the page with the unfortunate reality of things, there’s hope. A hope certainly not as powerful as before, and certainly not embraced. There’s hope that this is just a hiccup in the story of us, the hope that she’ll come to see what we could be and want that with me. There’s the hope that this settling cloud of uncertainty and resignation will be but a temporary hiatus in this boy’s life, and what lies at the end of the road isn’t dying cold and alone as an old man filled with darkness and regret, but that the road leads north to Wisconsin, to a life of love and laughter, a life of cherished memories and cultivated hearts and a love growing warm like a candle in the night, a love warming our hearts and our lives so that even the biting northern cold cannot quench the love that we have. There’s that hope, rising out of the depths of my heart like a phoenix from the ashes, telling me about myself but ignoring the nature of things in its naivety. It’s so easy to close my eyes and open my soul and let this hope light a fire in my heart, to let this hope give energy to weak hands and trembling knees. But hope then becomes nothing more than a drug, an opiate keeping reality at bay. But reality’s stronger than ignorance, and as much as they say love’s stronger than the grave, death’s just so full and man so small. I would much rather know the nature of the world and live in accordance with it (this is the heart of stoicism, after all) than spend my days believing lies and being sustained by them. Perhaps it’s just time to call this for what it is, to name it and be done: another disappointment, another dead-end, another testament to the foolishness of hope and just another tale to be lost in the records of my diaries and journals. If we weren’t separated by 497 miles, maybe things would be different; maybe she’d come to see what we can be and want that with me. But 497 miles is no gulf easily bridged, and I’m rendered powerless to change her heart. As a dumb boy I once believed that I could change a girl’s heart. Now I know I can’t. It just doesn’t work that way. So here I am with what I feel and she’s there with what she feels, and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it, and that’s that.
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