Sometimes I don't know what to do with myself. I cannot allow myself to break, so I keep moving. If I am still, my mind begins reaching, reaching, for...I don't know. Even when I am still, I am doing something: planning tomorrow's to-do list in my head, praying "Please be with my girl today while she is away from me, God", wishing, trying to work out a solution to the never-ending problem of...ME. And when my brain grows tired of trying to sort out all of that shit, I sleep.
I annoy the shit out of myself. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to care that I am alone. I don't want to feel like I am a wasted asset, a "catch". I don't want to care that I feel I am wasted. I wish I didn't feel loneliness anymore. I know, cognitively, that I don't need another person to be happy. But emotionally, I want to share my life with someone else. I don't want to be happy alone.
I don't want to care about wasted time. I don't want to feel like I wasted any time with the love I had for someone the past 15 months. I want to be able to walk away, head high, knowing I gave my all, did my best, and learned "valuable lessons".
But I walked away feeling like a fool.
And now I must lie in this bed alone, feeling full of foolishness, and empty at the same time.
Yet, still full of love that I must smother, every morning when I wake up.
It must be snuffed out, so that it doesn't annihilate me when it isn't returned ("do unto others", right?) or is used, or is abused, or is ignored, or is taken advantage of......
So I smother it--I attempt to compartmentalize it: "Here-I loved this part of him at this time." or "There-I will remember my love for him at that time". I sort, stack, label, and store all these memories of him, of us, and I smother the shit out of all of it, so that when my girl asks me where he is, I don't sink in a heap of tears on the floor. I stand tall, with a fake smile plastered on my face (it's beginning to feel real...ish) and I pull the index card out of the box labeled "White Lies To Tell About The Man That Wasn't Man Enough To Be Who He Said He Would Be Or Who You Deserved" and I say "He has a lot going on in his life right now, so we can't expect him to be here for us".
What kind of bullshit is that?
I am still working on compartmentalizing the anger. Right now, it seems to be mixed in with memories, post it notes, dried flowers, fading photographs.
Who knows a fool better than a fellow fool?