Sometimes, I look back at where I was two, three years ago, and wish I could go back and somehow warn myself. Just to let me know that I couldn't sustain it, that kind of reckless hope that came so easily then, that it was fickle and would fly from me before I even knew what was happening. That I'd eventually have to grow up, substitute inadequate logic for all that inexplicable certainty, and it would be much easier if I didn't still have such recent memories of those near-weightless nights. But then, any warning would ultimately serve current-me more than me-of-the-past, because I'd only be out to save myself that moment of sad realization that I'd gone and changed on myself, lost the thing I'd trusted most, and that nothing could be the same from that point.
I talked to Ellen about this, the other night, and it felt sublime, to recognize the same sort of loss in someone else, but mostly, I'm content to forget about those times, those fever-dreams, because it hurts to remember that, gives me a headache for trying to hold the reality of that shift, for trying to work out when it occurred and how I might have avoided it. It's easier, I think, and more practical (because that's what matters now, isn't it?) to believe that that change was inevitable, that enough time and experience and heartbreak would have led me to that loss no matter how hard I'd fought it. But then, perhaps that's the real sticking point: knowing that I didn't fight it, didn't know enough to, and had I been a shred more self-aware, perhaps I could have staved it off or veered away altogether. And if that's true - which I suspect it is, on my worst nights - then how to forgive myself for that sort of blunder?
It's maddening, really, which is why I've avoided making this post until this point, and why I'll probably decide to delete it later on. Remembering directly is too much work for me, most nights; the best I can manage is sidling up to those things that instilled that hope in me to begin with, and trying to work out what changed. I'm only writing this here now because the night passed, and my dreams worried me, and there's no one to speak them to. I'm only writing it now because something remains in me, whispers that I could regain all that, and I wouldn't mind looking back on this and laughing, some day later. I'm only writing this because I don't know what comes next, so prolonging this moment is all I know to do.
I talked to Ellen about this, the other night, and it felt sublime, to recognize the same sort of loss in someone else, but mostly, I'm content to forget about those times, those fever-dreams, because it hurts to remember that, gives me a headache for trying to hold the reality of that shift, for trying to work out when it occurred and how I might have avoided it. It's easier, I think, and more practical (because that's what matters now, isn't it?) to believe that that change was inevitable, that enough time and experience and heartbreak would have led me to that loss no matter how hard I'd fought it. But then, perhaps that's the real sticking point: knowing that I didn't fight it, didn't know enough to, and had I been a shred more self-aware, perhaps I could have staved it off or veered away altogether. And if that's true - which I suspect it is, on my worst nights - then how to forgive myself for that sort of blunder?
It's maddening, really, which is why I've avoided making this post until this point, and why I'll probably decide to delete it later on. Remembering directly is too much work for me, most nights; the best I can manage is sidling up to those things that instilled that hope in me to begin with, and trying to work out what changed. I'm only writing this here now because the night passed, and my dreams worried me, and there's no one to speak them to. I'm only writing it now because something remains in me, whispers that I could regain all that, and I wouldn't mind looking back on this and laughing, some day later. I'm only writing this because I don't know what comes next, so prolonging this moment is all I know to do.
1 comment:
Keep up the good work.
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