Driving enveloped by the complete darkness, the warmth of the coffee in my hands and the heater blowing in my face, the comforting cadence of the man reading the vampire romance through my cd player was such a soothing sanctuary this morning. One that I depend on more than I used to. I loose myself in the warmth and the sounds, at times aspects of my life filtering around in the back of my mind trying to sort themselves out while the rest of me is distracted.
I have kept myself so busy in every aspect that I haven’t really had time to sit and think (which is good and bad—I think more about things than I should; definitely more than the average bear [accurate in several definitions]). However, the things that are swimming through my consciousness aren’t overly soothing. I can’t shake the picture of the man I have become. One that makes me question the belief and the theory that it’s not about the destination, but about the journey (not that I’ve ever been a strong follower of that notion—I am much too results driven to align myself with that premise—but I do find it romantically appealing). I still don’t regret a moment of the life we shared and wouldn’t trade any of it, even knowing the final chapters. However, it does lessen it and makes it difficult to look back on it with as much wonder as I once had, now knowing the end. Knowing that I wasn’t enough. Knowing that I have become the person in his life who pathetically clings onto him and what he no longer feels, the person he wishes could just move on, let go, and leave him alone. Knowing that the moments (much more than mere moments) of the purest happiness I’ve ever known now serve to torment and withhold completeness from me. Knowing that the person who loved me the most and allowed me to be the center of his world for awhile now sees me as a completely different creature than the man he held and loved. I have changed so much over the years. Finally free of really caring what others think and feel about me, not living my life so that my actions fulfill everyone’s expectations and desires for/about me. I am free of that—save one. And that one, I can never satisfy. Maybe, maybe, I’ll get to the place where that is okay. Right now, though, it is the farthest thing from okay that there could be.
The past few days or week have brought with them an increase in my self-depreciation and grandiose idealizations. I feel like something’s coming. I’m not sure if that means in the next couple days (I don’t think so) or the next several months. It feels like a change is on its way—I don’t know if that change is a physical, tangible occurrence or an emotional/mental metamorphosis. Maybe it’s good news from the publisher in December (maybe bad), maybe it’s a winning lotto ticket (or a bankruptcy). Maybe its Chad remembering why he loved me (we all know better), maybe it’s me somehow becoming a full person again (or a much needed vacation in a sanitarium). More than likely, it’s nothing, more self-deception and ostentatious grandiosity. Maybe I am simply creating a feeling of change to give myself something to continue towards. Either way, I can’t shake the sensation that something is over the horizon. Which, is okay. It’s keeping me going. Just like in a book, through the boring or painful parts, you keep turning the pages, sure that the events that are to come affect the story in some pivotal way. And, since most authors commit to the common expectations, that often happens. Sometimes, you find a writer who doesn’t, and the events never come in the closing chapters. I’d like to think the book of my life follows some sort of pattern that would allow me to rest in that simple comfort. However, knowing God’s stubborn (irritating) writing habits, I know there is no guarantee to that.
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago