|
epistle log 40rty 9ine
i will fight
i've said so much, emptied my heart to her so often, with no response. loath to hamper the rebuilding of our friendship, i swallow my need for questions and confessions of truth for the comfort of small talk and the music of her voice. the warmth and softness overcome me, a blanket; quieting the turmoil of my thoughts by caressing my heart. i don't know if it is unhealthy nostalgia or the truest embrace of love. given my intermittent anger and remorse, punctuated by these brief rays of comfort, either option seems likely: compensating for the present by reviving the past; or, still feeling warmth and comfort despite my pain and anger.
the conclusion: regardless of motive, these brief moments have brought me joy. my pain stems from the past, and her reticence. the past remains a morbid curiosity, and a way to read into the current silence.
i finally see that the only thing holding me to the past and this ennui of uncertainty is a moment of candid honesty. and this seems to be the one thing she cannot give me.
and so the meaningless days fade by, work done in ever shrinking increments, not even punctuated by the doldrums of uninspired inertia. the slow crawl of everydayness cut loose by the receding future and frozen by reticence.
what can rekindle the strenuous mood? have a full time job and this stale town damned me to inauthenticity?
no. i cannot externalize this. but what then? a complacency, fearing what will happen when i finally face it all head on? but i've been striving, fighting to end these grey circles of nothing going nowhere. how typical of me: fearing that which i want most. dare i ask a colorless question?
11|15|01