I wish i could write, but i've been listening intensely to this fucking silence for weeks on end now, long before any of this incompatibility and derailing was well earned. Unfortunately, nothing comes out when you yell into a vacuum, but all the better, because i'm sure it would be shit content-wise if at all audible. Found this unpublished entry from many a moon ago, when things were flowing...
A letter to the many women I have known and further fictionalized:
I write a pleading pardon for the thousands of thoughts hinted at but never actually uttered, the self-righteous claims of bold and balled courage, scarves and gloves and matching hats fashioned of faux bravery, I stay darkly cloaked in false security even on the sunniest, muggiest, sweatiest of humid summer situations. I write out all my worry for all that was miscommunicated, most of which I never actually said but - like a story that you hear enough times to insert yourself in as the protagonist - simply convinced myself of saying. This suspended circus act of eye-defying self-exposure flies perfectly fine from thousands of miles away and even more so when poured into thousands of cyber particles sloppily assembled, but wears quickly thin when I’m actually asked to go back and re-read.
As I hyperbolize myself into a surrealist conception of love and truth and bone-baring honesty, life comes tramping in, all horns of reality, clamoring and running amok. It knocks books off shelves, shatters picture frames, tears up essays graded and stained. It turns stereos to full blast playing all the songs that you - the very women to whom this letter is addressed - had sent me in days passed. Songs that may very well have been charged with that same, steaming, shameless intention that I have in all of my avoidance. It's stupid and drunken, all with the hope that these tunes might slip into my ears and slide deep into the crevices of my mind late at night and be the last thought - that sexy resounding ultimate note, that launching pad for 6 more hours of dream play. But they all play too loudly and simultaneously, not even allowing me those vital moments of narcissism assuring myself that you are reminded of me when you hear them too.
Do I miss or resent all the distance? It ripped us apart in the very moment that we had what my skewed measuring stick might mark as potential. And it kept us separated from getting to know each other, from moving past electric moments of eyes meeting, bodies touching, jokes made and laughed at. It stole loads of nerves like fistfuls of jewels and left us poor and confused at how quickly things end. But maybe this was also the basis of all the potential in the first place. That distance could very well have been the throbbing heart of everything we ever had together. Not just physical distance but also personal distance. It gave me the chance to make you up as I have – the less I know the more I fill in on my own. It wraps everything in glossy surprise, all under the pretense that one day you will be there and undo everything I have transposed onto you. And that distance allowed me to keep every one of you, dear women, separate, innocuous, living in functional harmony.
Dear women, I’m sorry for all of the rash decisions I’ve made, and even more sorry for those I those that I did not. I’m sorry for everything I never said aloud but continue to imagine saying. I’m sorry for scripting rather than speaking because it lets me dramatize both you and me and we’re played by sexy celebrities while thousands of people are watching. I never even gave you the chance to say what I know to be true, which is that you don’t and never felt the way I pretend you do in my head. I darken the outer edges so the plotline seems to thicken. In doing so, then I never have to admit that I may very well have already been forgotten.
