Another well-crafted ‘blog entry, the performance art of the lonely and antisocial, last refuge for interminable denial. I’m in denial.
5.00 saturday, the only customer in a small basement college bar. I listen to Blixa & co. tell me about the historicity of Deja Vu. I’m too tired to be visibly or audibly hurt. I’m quietly embracing an old, familiar pain that I both hate and love. If I were simply heartbroken, that would make things easier… but nothing’s ever simple. I’m not heartbroken. I’m in love, and I may see her for the last time ever sometime soon.
I’ll give up on swearing that I won’t do this again; I know myself too well. Sometime next year, once I’ve admitted to myself that I’m a lone traveller once more, I’ll do it again. Sometimes they pretend that it pains them to hear me say it; it doesn’t, not really. It pains me more to say it, and to realize it. But I’ll do it over and over, a collector of my own insecurities, a specialist in loved ones’ understandable and always “perhaps” temporary departures, each time more broken and less able to believe than the last, until finally, someday…
And rightly so — the object of my belief is nothing more than a myth. The object of my belief is a phantom from another era and another life.
Always they tell me they’re afraid of how I might hurt them; always, in the end, it’s me in the bar alone instead.
But believe or no, I’ll do it again.
A thousand lives I lived, beneath the hand of the slaughterer.
I’m fundamentally a lonely person, impatient to hear what my own last words will be, desperate for comic books and plastic toys to come to life and prove that it doesn’t have to be so. But they won’t. I’m old enough to know it. They won’t.
I came to the bar because I knew it would be empty. I don’t want to call a friend. I don’t want to talk to family. I don’t want to see a familiar face. I just want to be alone, to smell and taste what is my nature — I’m a young, hopeful apprentice in an age of proletarian metrokids. I’m the skinny girl in the closet with the strangely large knees, raised without language and without culture and suddenly thrust into a world of monsters that I fear and love.
Everyone I’ve ever loved is still inside me, tearing me apart. Few of them know it, and few of them care. None of them are within reach. Just as well; I’d only hate them if they were, as much as I’d try not to — and it would devastate both of us to realize that that was how I felt. Then, once I’d driven them away again, I’d cry bitterly at having lost — once again — someone I love.
I want nothing other than to be faithful to the world… but in this world, there’s no place for faith.
I love her and I will miss her.