World Spins Madly On

       Opportunity has never hesitated to present itself, graciously, paths lying sweetly before me.  I stroll blithely down them, smiling at the scenery, enjoying the trip.  Every so often, when presented with a choice, I get a nervous feeling, like if I pick the wrong one, will this crumble?  I shrug the worry away, shake it off like a cobweb, and stumble through whichever path feels right.  And I never doubt myself.  I never question if I'm in the right place or if I should have gone the other way.  Of course not.  If I was supposed to go in a different direction, surely I would have.  I succumb mindlessly to the whims of myself, feeling guided by some higher power, the natural balance of the universe directing me hither and thither.  I wander carelessly with little thought to consequence.
     I remember knowing.  The invincibility of myself made me delirious.  The infallibility, the barely existent threat of consequences I knew I would never meet; surely there were no punishments for someone so obviously led.  So obviously led to lead, to accomplish.  "To accomplish what," I should have asked.  How unfathomable that would be to me then- the idea that the world wouldn't bend over backwards to accommodate me was subversive, unthinkable!  The proper course of action presented itself regularly, promptly, simply and with little effort.
     Omnipresent beneath the guileless naivety was the creeping question I buried, hoping it would never resurface.  What happens when all of this stops?  What about when the universe moves on?


     This, I guess.

Dress Me Like a Clown

    In bad times, I remember good times.  Through good times, I plan better times.  It's inevitable.  I'm hopelessly hopeful.  Neck-deep in cynicism, I'm still spinning sickly sweet conceptions that spiral beyond my mind's control.  Wallowing in bitter misery, I construct and reconstruct various fairy tale endings.  You grow up.  I calm my nerves.  We get it together. Whiny whispers creep back, draining my reserve, straining my (ears? heart? head?), making me desperate.  "What are you thinking about?" "Nothing. I mean... it's silly. It's stupid."  "Tell me."  "You won't laugh?" "Do I ever laugh at you?" 
     So much affection in nuances, in hushed laughter, in the closeness of our good nights.  Why do we always have to end up back together?  It's exhausting.  It's miserable.  It's exhilarating.  The way you can't hide your feelings.  The way I never let mine show with anyone else.  The easiness.  The simultaneous existence of comfort and nervousness.  Of familiarity and strangeness.  Oldness and newness.  Trust and suspicion.
     I'm so ambivalent, even though the decisions seem so obvious.  Especially to everybody else.  But they're not us.  And I'm sick of their input and their interfering and their inferences.  So my decision is this: I'm staying exactly where I am.  With you, without you, with you.  Wherever we end up, we'll see.  But I'm not any more prepared for the commitment or consequences than you are.  We stay in limbo because it's what we need from each other, and all either one of us can provide.  And some days it breaks my heart.  And some days I'm unsatisfied.  And some days I'm miserable.  But every day it's what I want.  You're what I want.  And maybe we'll grow into commitment and consequences, and maybe we'll grow apart.  I'm not placing any bets.  
     I'm just keeping us between us.  We're so much better that way.

Fixed to Ruin

     New Character: Saint Simon. 23. Intelligent, compassionate, attentive, dependable, responsible. Faithful. Reliable, sincere, polite, chivalrous, respectful.  Consistent.  Appreciative, understanding. Goes out of his way to accommodate me. Looks into my eyes when I speak, or he speaks to me.  Remembers little things I say I like.
     Why am I completely incapable of emotional reciprocation?


     I couldn't look myself in the mirror if I broke his heart.  Okay, I could, but I might wince a little at my reflection.  What's the polite way to say "I'm flattered, but darling, I'd eat you alive?"

Where I End and You Begin (The Sky is Falling In)

     Things have been different for a while now.  Six weeks perhaps?  Shorter?  Longer?  Who's to say?
     An eye roll here, a muttered aside there, a casual, caustic response.  And it's me, I know it's me.  Does it all trace back to a single afternoon?
     "It's totally your fault and I don't feel sorry for you."  "Did I ask you to?"
     And it grew, slowly, escalating quietly while we ignored it, wishing it would take care of itself.  Knowing it wouldn't, but wanting it to anyway.  Its manifestations were fewer and farther between in the beginning.   "You already asked me that."  The animosity was surprising, hurtful.  We buried it rapidly, only allowing a few tense syllables before the gentleness returned.  In its place was pleading, mostly from him, and from me ice. "I'm not saying that just to piss you off, it's true."  His attempts at sweetening the disagreements are rejected, heartlessly.   "Don't touch me."  Eventually the effort is wearing, and he gives in to my antics. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."  "It's not my personal opinion, it's common etiquette. It's not like I make this shit up."   Weariness turns to frustration as boredom and annoyance collide and spiral into bitterness. "After this drink, I'm leaving."  My apologies flood hurriedly, overwhelmingly, effectively.  Promises of love are issued and reissued softly, soothingly, as dissonance is assuaged into its more pleasant opposite.  And then it starts over.
     Apathy replaces heartbreak quickly, before I can even notice that it's painful.  This is my usual defense, the easiest and most effective.  And most destructive.  Neglect comes easily. Phone calls are ignored and not returned.  Texts left unopened, acknowledged only with a sigh.  Read days later and deleted as I roll my eyes.  Who are we and what happened to us?  It's mostly me, I know.  It's always mostly me.  I'm so uneasy in the face of conflict.  I roll my eyes and retreat, mumbling away my passive aggression.
     Until his masculinity builds, and all he has left to contend with is the overwhelming inadequacy of my half-sincere apologies for my constant absence.
     He begins hesitantly, nervously.
   "Don't say I didn't try!"  
   My reactions are so predictable, though maybe only to myself.
   "I never said that."
   He fumbles.
   "I mean in the future."
   I've stifled compassion.
   "Why would I say that?"  
   "Never mind."  
   Safe.  Conflict free.  Unscathed?  Alone.  Which is the only way to be safe.
     I've underestimated him.  I have that tendency.  With most everyone.  He regroups and confronts me, unwavering.  I barely acknowledge a syllable.  My self-control is rigid, inflexible.  I lock myself into  indifference and monosyllables.  This is how I ruin everything.  I know it's coming.  His frustration intensifies, I can feel him seethe in every word.  I actively disregard this.
   "I think you're taking this a little personally."  
  "I'm not.  We had all these plans..."  
   I focus on emptiness.
  "I really don't know what to say."
     Struggling to get comfortable, I twist and turn.  I breathe deeply, concentrating on the harsh intake of air and its controlled release.  Control.  Control.  Control.  I can't sleep.  Nothing ever keeps me awake.  I can sleep off anything.  Why am I still awake?  I lie, listening to the slow, automatic beating of my cold,  empty heart.  "I'm sorry," I almost whisper to the darkness, but I'm not willing to give that up yet.
     Am I about to lose the best friend I've ever had?

Fickle Cycle

     Aren't we getting too old for this?  Or will you never grow up?  I'm ready for something else.  You're exhausting.
     I'm frustrated with your half-assed, half-hearted attempts to meet me halfway.  I've filled years with frantic, fumbling formulations of feeble excuses and I'm finally finished.
     (This is so easy to decide when you're not paying attention to me.  I can declare it boldly to anyone who will listen, announce it for audiences abound.  The instant you come back my resolve evaporates.  I forget every single reason you're bad for me.  And there are so many reasons.  Forgetting those reasons is gradually becoming a struggle.  They used to vanish effortlessly and now I fight to stifle them, to hide them beneath the giddiness.  Burying my reservations is becoming a burden.)
     Are we going to figure this out while it's still worth it?

This Scene is Dead

   "You're sad? How do you think I feel?"
   "I don't know."
   "Disappointed. I thought you might finally come through."