Bent Words

Bent Words

July 26, 2007

I have spent tedious hours, since I donít know exactly when, interpreting your questionable glances, your reproachful words, your conflated remarks, your dark humor and your moments of immense anger. These things linger in my head after a long day and weigh on me with every step I take thereafter, as though each thought became another sandbag tied around my waist.

I cannot escape from the resounding disappointment, the disapproval, the angst, the harshness that has overcome you. You accept nothing, question everything and then blow it all off with a silent shrug of your shoulders. That is when I find myself returning to the lines youíve written, looking for a proof that one would now be hard pressed to believe. That once you appeared shy in my eyes, that once you conquered my disdain for cuddling, you made moments shine for me, you respected my worth and believed in my readiness.

And after Iíve read these exalted words, where you admitted that silence would not work in our favor, I only find myself more exhausted.

Wringing the last drops of patience from my soul in order to obtain one single, sensible answer. I hover there, tense and defenseless, unable to quit these solitary nights of unmoving labor. I wait Ė and I never know for what Ė but I do it over and over again just the same. And yet I do know that, perhaps, itís hopeless. Perhaps itís even wasteful Ė for what of grief are you undertaking? What improvement are you longing for? What empathy do you feel? What of this struggle have you encompassed and how much of it have you simply refrained from feeling altogether? Like you said yourself Ė what can be gained with such stinging silence? And what is it about you that has become so compelled to cause such dark clouds to follow over me as well?

I only have to wonder if I have found the answer. If I have, if I am right, or even hold an ounce of understanding to that which has confounded me so, than I must confess that I feel no consolation. For what sort of true comprehension could make my circumstance, my state of bereavement, any better? What amount of awareness would it take to rectify the situation? And what would you care?

If itís really that you hate yourself for having allowed such passions, such hopes, such adorations, such immensity to exist, than who am I to call it out? How can I merely state it, write it down, make it known, believe it or take a taste and pretend that I know it? Like an obscure speck on the map of the world Ė a place Iíve only dared to visit but never occupied Ė it is only a partial view. I could never claim to know what itís like to live there.

Still, I try.

Written at 10:09 p.m.