Hell I don't even know if it's drifiting. There's always been a wall between us, a berm of earth or something alliterative that one or the other of us hides behind pretty much at all times, the kind of invisible thing that makes me wonder if we ever had a chance at being the thing that we both wanted, or wherther there was even a thing at all.
These days you're out there, playing in the sunshine, wrapping leaves of autumn around your smile that keep you eternally happy, and I am here trapped in a box of my own making, cold and damp with the worms crawling in and out and starting to consider a weekly game of pinochle.
You seem happy. I love seeing you happy.
We've been drifting apart for a while.
You have the gravitas of a bulldog, the anger of a thousand suns, and part of you hates me, despises me for what you've become. I don't understand the depth of your convictions, the jagged edges of your philosophy, the dairy farm princess choices that you carry with you like a war hero. I've given of myself what I can, and now I have to call myself to find my metaphorical cell phone.
You don't seem happy. You've never seemed happy.
We've been drifting apart for a while.
I miss your smile. I miss your laugh. I miss the way that you used to make me feel wanted, desired, admired. And over time, that went away, replaced slowly, glacially by resentment and eventually hatred. I didn't deserve hatred, and I wish I knew enough to let you go when you needed it so long ago, but I don't see everything, and sometimes I am afraid, too.
You seem like you could be happy, but you won't let yourself.
We drifted apart a long time ago.
We drifted back together, mangled by the seas of time, scarred and ravaged, but we remember who we once were, and for brief shining moments, we see each other as when we were young and beautiful and full of promise and stages and a world at our feet. Yet all we have is moments. All we will ever have is moments.
We've never been close enough to drift apart.
You are like something out of a book, perfection of character, erudite and humble, charming and alluring with the depth and mustiness of a tome that you'd find on Lovecraft's shelf, rich and deserving and a little dark, handled with love. I am but one of many who has read you, touched your pages with nothing more to offer than the rest, clamoring less, reserving the right to keep you on a pedestal and admire you from afar so as not to sully your image with the blurring of reality. I'd rather admire the you that exists in my mind than discover that is merely an image, a character.
You seem happy with a contented kind of adventurous that I envy and admire. Would that you were real, I would fall deeply, madly in love with you.
We were close once. Closer than anyone has ever been.
At one point, I think we may have been the same person. I needed you like I have never needed anyone before or since, a true need built of desperation and loneliness, broken dreams and promises, betrayal and destruction. You were there to make me into something better than I was, you were there to carry me across the abyss, to teach me how to walk again.
And then you had to go.
I miss you. Some times more than others. I understand why you had to go. I understand that you couldn't stay with me, that you had to leave and chase your dreams (they were my dreams once too, remember?). I hope you made it.
We were close once.
But we drifted apart.
I miss you.
It's been a while since I've written anything.
This was a departure from my usual. And before you jump all over me for being all maudlin, remember that this is writing, allowing myself an indulgence of playtime, whether it be wallowing in a pit of mud, hunting zombies in the Hundred-Acre Wood, or uncovering the deep, dark secrets of a black ops program.
I need to delve once in a while, frolic in the uncharacteristic places that get short shrift during the more mundane phases of my existence. It's a way of touching who I am on the inside without getting all sticky and full of goo. Not that I have anythihng against getting all sticky and full of goo, but not when I'm fiddling around on the inside.
I stopped writing for a while. There was a kind of focus on other things, a dissolution of distractions, a need to hold on to real things, things of substance and algorithm and logical progression, and let lie the sleeping dogs of skies that write messages to me in the dark, the barking pigs of bad metaphor.
Sometimes I write to an audience. The audience is rarely actual, it's more of a virtual sense of someone, a quiet voice of enthrallment that reads my words with rapt attention and wrinkles up her snooty nose when my writing is bad, yet she still reads on like drinking a glass of wine that isn't quite what she wanted but still has its charm.
And I think that is key. That audience is me, or an aspect of myself that exists as a distorted reflection, filtered through an avatar that is different than my own, yet still exists as some part of me. And I know what she looks like. She's hot, but imperfect, not so beautiful as to be distracting, but the kind of beauty that is approachable and comfortable once you start talking and realize that this is someone that you could spend the rest of your life with and as soon as the words form in your head you spill your coffee in your lap and break the spell because now as soon as you stand up you're gonna look like you peed all over yourself and then she smiles and laughs and you know that she's thinking the same thing but she's there with you, laughing with your embarassment but not at it and you fall in love with her all over again.