thoughts on the road – 12 september 2003
Factory store: Walnut Bowls
NostalgiaVille, USA 50s and 60s store
“Giving taxes to your sports team won’t revitalize your city”
we owe so many factors for allowing our existence
I’m trying to let go of you, and thinking, maybe, if I write these letters to you and never send them, I’ll let go, get through…
So. What to say, now? I wonder what you’re thinking, but I don’t want to know if it isn’t about me… I’m selfish, I know. But every time a car drives by, even here, even now, I look to see if it’s yours. And every time I see someone tall in the corner of my eye I don’t look because it might be you. I know next to nothing about you. I’m not sure if I want to know.
I know you aren’t thinking of me. I know you don’t even consider me remotely in the way I think of you. ‘s probably better that way – it’s just… hard. I wish, but I know. I know deeply and certainly that you don’t like me and that I’m fooling myself like a cheap magician whose every trick is seen through but I keep on doing it and I can’t stop. And I’m sorry.
14 september 2003
I want to hold your hand, and be able to cry in front of you and be comforted and held, I want to feel beautiful around you. I want all the sappy crap of a boyfriend and I can’t even laugh caustically at myself for doing so. It cheapens you, for one thing, making you into something you aren’t.
Thinking of you is a piece of glass in the heart that cuts simply by its presence, and every shuddering pulse makes it cut faintly deeper. I need to let go of you, not because you are the boyfriend of my friend, but because feeling for you depresses me.
You just make it so goddamned hard.
Time to let go.
Funny – you’ll never know about this little episode in my life, and I’ll probably forget it or find it hilarious, eventually. It still hurts, if I think about it.
But why should I simply make myself unhappy over you.
All right. No more letters to you. No more picking the scab. You love her, and that is that.
Letting go and getting through…
It’s funny how far I let myself go into him, really.
I still sort of feel like crying, but I won’t. I need to smile. I need to start over.
Disappointment and bruised pride do not equal a broken heart.