This email is untitled because I spend a good deal of my time categorizing elements; pushing events, facts and thoughts into neat sections and moving on.  I’ve stopped.  And I seem to be doing that lately with flair.  The irony comes in that it’s not the least bit unnerving, but it sure slows shit down.  I’m stuck in a molasses like trickle and everything around me is whizzing by. 

This is an apology.  I’m a selfish creature.  We all have the capacity to be, but part of conducting healthy relational habits is being able to admit when you’ve faltered.  I was wrong.  I’ve been wrong.  And sometimes, wrong feels just right.  And then it melts away into a horrible glaze of guilt.  I hope to explain, coherently, what’s going on.  If you know me as well as I hope, you’ll know that this isn’t just a thought in passing, I’ve meditated over my plot for countless nights.  On countless commutes to wherever the fuck I go to do something for people, organizations with no feelings or insights on how I stun.  The problem is that we’re alive.  Some of us seem to know what to do about that, but I really think it’s a put-on.  If I’m to spend my days as myself, I’m hellbent on being honest with what pops into my thought stream and into my emotional centre.

As time peels away, I notice myself around more people. I’m wondering how it came to be like this.  And I’m beginning to think it’s because I am fully aware of the only fact that matters: our time here is shaped by us individually.  Our expectations change and as life gets longer, awful feels softer.  It feels pretty soft to me.  And I’m just fine with that.  I’m in great awe and appreciation of the hardships and the excellence life brings.  This isn’t optimism and it isn’t pessimism.  It’s my plot.  I have to shape it.  I also have to be in tune with other factors that might shape it, and know that I can’t control everything.  That’s been the hardest part for me. 

To naturally love someone requires settling on the concept of letting them be.  I can’t change anyone into exactly how I want them.  I don’t know everything, and I tend to be quite fucking shallow.  I can only hope to inspire changes that will bring color and spirit to life.  I can only hope to inspire and enjoy the natural changing of individuals that occurs when they come together and remain that way. I didn’t set out hoping for this and I’m not even sure what “this” is, but it’s certainly changing me and my thoughts about relationships.  I’ve had my share of unhealthy, emotionally murderous unions, and I can’t will them away.  I don’t even want to.  I’ve come to this point because of them.  There will be more, and that’s the only thing that stands in my way; that keeps me from really moving towards anything. 

I didn’t know I was in love because I am too prideful to attach myself to something that will fail.  That will fail considering the odds.  It wasn’t until I noticed that my eating habits were changing, that I couldn’t rest at night, than I couldn’t go about my day the same way I had been without acknowledging, in thought, what he means to me.  That what he means to me is not conventional, but still very real.   I don’t always want these thoughts; I could certainly do without these feelings at times.  These days, everything about love makes me uneasy.  I asked you if people really fall in love because I’m wholly against it.  Love fucks all.  As soon as you start to feel for someone or anything, it becomes a mindfuck.  It sops up all of your energy, personality, headstuff. I spend most of time with someone I don’t know as well as I should, and that’s the appeal.  That’s it.  That’s the appeal for him too, I’m quite sure.  Really knowing someone equates to a history of uneasiness and memories to repress.  The new is a never-ending desire, and desire is suffering.  The problem with love is that it shatters peace like a fist through a window. 

I could walk away because what would I be walking away from?  I don’t know the answer to that; so I may consider.  But then he says the stupidest shit, makes the most amusing sound for no reason except to get my attention. I fall apart and reconfigure in his space.  You have to understand what that feels like.  You’ve loved.  I have too, and it’s a cancer almost.  It weakens immunity and makes life a heavy body.  Things are so heavy; together and apart.  I hate his voice after I’ve needed it so long.  I hate him in my drop-off moments; those bipolar phases.  In my sleep, I always see him and it actually keeps me sleeping. 

There’s a a huge elephant in the room.  One that’s about to be poached.  We’ve hollered our ideologies at the top of our voice boxes for months and months.  It doesn’t make us gurus.  It doesn’t even make us ideologic.  It just makes us loudmouth fools afraid of silence.  I don’t know anything for sure except that when I’m dead, the world is over.  That’s all that holds weight.  So yeah, I can be selfish because we all fade away alone.  I’m the only one that must fade for me.  But I feel like we’re taking each other and wiping out our existences.  That could be the best thing to ever happen, or a total romantic demolition. And most likely, it never was supposed to exist. I can never tell because hate and love are inseparable.  We never say anything important; it’s all in the actions.  It’s in the way he pinches my side to say hello to me in a group of people I can’t stand.

And really, I can’t stand very many.  But I do anyway because whatever love is, it makes you a whole different being.  It makes your tastebuds wake up. Your tears more excruciating; they cut into your face and leave you helpless.  And whatever it is, love makes the sunnier days longer, and the dark ones draw you together.  Then the smiles are bigger and they stay, and then it’s gone and you don’t know why.  and your heart is a piece of wax, waiting for heat to change its form.  Waiting for a reason to anything.  I hate that about me: I get paused in indecisiveness.  Fucking wretched. And neither of us know what we’re doing.  That’s pretty much the only thing we agree upon.  Yet we’re so curious.  It’s the time for that, I suppose.  But to know that it ends is enough to keep the start from starting.

And then we know we’re both fooling ourselves.  There’s nothing more to it than what was there before we knew each other.  Each day seeps into the next; and it has no value without comparing it to other days.  We know we couldn’t try hard enough to fix ourselves or fix anything we’ve destructed; those moments we’ll never discuss or the time wasted waiting in completely forced conversations.  Silence is usually a benefit.  And I wish so badly to be alone, but once I get there, I’m less productive.  I rest in my foolish luxury, and rest is key. 

Of course, none of this makes any amount of sense.  I’m completely mad despite the fact that you can’t be crazy if you can admit it. But, god I hope I am.

I miss you.  I do.  And I’d love to hear from you.