Monday, November 12, 2012

Things I Don't Want to Write About v2




Sunday morning I woke up and cried.
Not woke up crying.
Woke up. Got up. Cried.
And then I did other stuff.




In my dream something terrible and great was happening in the world.
(Think, like, the plot of a superhero movie. You know: good vs evil, explosions, a love story.)
A boy I loved a lot of years ago was with me, as the best version of himself.
Standing in front of me in my dream, he was all of his best parts and everything good I'd ever wanted to see in him.
We had to do something. He was waiting for me, but it was taking me a really long time to change clothes and I didn't want him to see me undressed.
And. I was on the phone with another version of him. The version who, once upon a time in real life, disappointed me and broke my heart.
In the dream I was aware of a million versions of this boy and saw all the different lives that might have been his.

The thing is, it wasn't really about him.
It's never about any of them. Even him.
The thing is, it never was.




And you think I might have learned.
Except that now, despite minutes and miles and the fact that YOU THINK I MIGHT HAVE LEARNED, another delicious disappointment keeps finding my tender place.

And I want to say NO. Rolled-up newspaper style.
And keep on keeping on, the way I have been.
Happily. Honestly.
Except that ache keeps creeping up on me, pouncing the second I relax the vigilance required to keep making "I'm fine" be true.

Every time I'm presented with a romantic opportunity, a million excuses of why I'm "not ready" crowd around my eyeballs and I can't see anything else. And let's be honest, a few of them are valid.
But the rest of them are nonsense garbage, even I know that. And I made them up!
And if try to picture a relationship unfolding from the moment in front of me I just get tired.



So I'm in this strange-feeling (to me) space of preferring to be alone
(I don't even want to date for fun, lately)
and being productive and happy and making decisions and enjoying this time
while in the meantime, the muscle in my chest asserts its desire 
for something different
in my dreams and on otherwise ordinary mornings.


Am I a bad mom for neglecting her eye booger?