Dear Friend Who Would Have Been More,
I can’t believe this should come as surprise. It should have never been a surprise. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious…painfully so. But then, perhaps the pain was just mine. That’s how these things go, I’m told…unrequited, unreturned, unreciprocated, unacknowledged. Unloved. So many uns, for a thing that should be anything but. If it’s true that ignorance is bliss, then this is the proof that the reverse is true, and knowledge is agony.
Songs lie on the ground, dedications that fell flat. They are the soldiers that died in a fruitless war, my own private Alamo. I am/was William Barret Travis, standing on the walls and watching Santa Anna and an army 5,000 strong–the forces of reality bearing down upon me. There is no inspirational story here; this is not 300 (which is not exactly a happy ending in and of itself). In the end, everything dies, and there is no greater meaning to it all. It was simply a waste.
Sometimes, I still believe that. It’s in my darker days that I think it didn’t matter. There are times that I think back upon you, from here in the not-so-distant-as-I-would-wish future, and wonder why I kept trying. The point to it all…was there one? Everything I did, everything I tried fell upon deaf ears; selective hearing is a bitch to the person trying to communicate. When you asked, “Do you love me?” and I answered “Of course,” what did you think I meant? As a friend? Yes, yes, with an impossibly strong conviction, YES. But as more, too. I wanted the moments that I saw you share with others, little moments of That you could not or would not see it would be bad; would be agonizing. But that you did see it and pretended not to…that you just let it slide and never addressed it? There are times I still don’t forgive you for leaving me twisting in the wind like that.
More often, though, I understand that, at it’s core, it doesn’t matter whether you returned it or not. Loving someone, in all of its forms, is not about how someone makes you feel. Quite the opposite. Love is how you feel about someone else, and how you want their happiness above yours. As long as you were happy, then that harsh mistress was doing its job, and even when it hurt, I was happy. Love is a masochistic feeling at times, and no one who’s ever felt it can honestly say otherwise. But it’s not always, and the times it’s not will always make the times it is worth enduring.
Another song comes up, as I write this. It’s one returned from the dead…zombie soliders, back to fight again. Remember Sarah McLachlan?
“So don’t tell me why he’s never been good to you
Don’t tell me why he’s never been there for you
Don’t you know that why is simply not good enough
So just let me try and I will be good to you
Just let me try and I will be there for you
I’ll show you why you’re so much more than good enough…”
It’s funny how often that one comes back to life. Persistant little fucker.
I’m rambling now. And, even in a letter such as this, I find myself not wanting to. Rambling is a fault, and to you, I want no faults, even ones I know you’ll never know of. I used to think that if I was perfect enough, and if I was there for you always, you would come around and see the trees for the forest. You didn’t, or at least never acknowledged that you did. And what’s important, when the pain of that is eroded and washed away like so much sediment into the sea, is that I was there for you. And I know that, somehow, I knew this was all it would ever be. And I’m okay with that now. I won’t be next time I think of you…but the time after I will. That’s how these things go, I’m told.
I love you. In whatever way that you need. The ways that you don’t need, decide what you want. The ways that you don’t want, don’t see. That’ll be good enough for me. Most of the time.
Until we meet again (if we do),