The heart is an organ vital to the human body.
But apparently my heart is not that vital to my writer’s mind. My heart, at this very moment, is outside of my body, halfway across the world, fifteen hours behind, and I’m sitting behind my cracked computer screen, writing this lovely piece of tragedy.
So you can be free.
I love you. I’m in love with you. I’m half out of my mind with grief. I had hoped that I would get to show you what tattoo I finally decided to get. I hoped I would have told you how the thing with my company went. I hoped I would get to schedule with you our time to learn more Hebrew. I hoped for a thousand things, and I hoped for an infinity of things. I hoped for a life with you.
I should have known better than to hope. Hope has always been a major bitch to me, I don’t know why I thought that had changed. Obviously it hasn’t.
After this, I know with absolute certainty that every single person on earth no longer have the right to call me selfish or anything remotely similar in meaning.
AR-N, This is a lovely confirmation of life and death, if I had to choose between my life or your death, I’ll die first, every time. Don’t waste my death. I’ll allow you to be miserable. But just for a while. I can live with you being miserable for a while if it restores balance to your world, if it restores normalcy. It sounds vicious, but it’s time I lose the naiveté that I’m irreplaceable. It’s about damn time.
It’s a cliché I’m about to tell you. The biggest of them all; Time will heal. Also, the truest of them all. Time will heal.
For you, because you function normally. Not for me. I’m a writer, remember? But I don’t matter here. I don’t factor into this decision. This is not about me. I’m an (aspiring) writer. My future, for now is nonexistent. I don’t have a tangible plan. My head is in the clouds. I can afford to not heal. I can afford to be broken. I can afford to be in agony. YOU CANNOT. You will not. Be miserable all you want, but make a timeframe, like you do for school and for work.
You don’t half-ass anything. I’m sure you won’t half-ass your misery. But you won’t half-ass getting your shit together. You won’t half-ass getting back on track. You won’t half-ass catching up with work and assignments. You won’t half-ass your career. That is why, I can make this decision and sleep without a burden on my conscience. I know you are capable of moving on.
I don’t know if I am, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been a wreck for years now, and I’m still alive, aren’t I? I’m still working, still here. That’s how I know I can take more damage and still be okay. It’s just more to what I already suffer from. It’s nothing much.
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.To You: Read This.
The heart is the strongest organ. Trust me. I’m the one with experience in this. You break it, and it still beats. Yours will beat again. It loves you too much not to beat again, unlike me. I love you too much, so I stopped mine from beating in rhythm to yours.
Don’t feel bad. Consider it an order. It’s a conscious decision I made, with my logic sound and intact, and in a very rare moment where my rationale even joins my logic.
As to a conscious decision I made, to decide for us both. It seems selfish, I know. It sounds an awful lot like pushing you away, according to you. I assure you with one hundred percent certainty it’s not.
Even now the tips of my fingers protest against the creation of these words. My eyes strain against me stringing these horrible sentences in front of them. My blood screams in my veins telling me to stop, to go back to you. My body is protesting and running back to your arms, but I’m putting both my feet firm on the ground.
My life turned into a romance novel the second I reached out to you. It feels like a dream, writing this to you. I don’t want it to end. I thought it would be forever. I needed you to be forever for me. I was drowning, and you breathed into me, and kept me afloat. But it was an honest mistake I made when I thought you keeping me afloat was different from taking you down with me.
I’m a wreck. I destroy everything I touch. I’m just sorry you had to be a part of it. I’m so, so sorry I made you hurt. You have my sincerest apologies that I just had to touch you and play a part in causing you pain.
I never believed in the guy myself. Too hokey-pokey-zen-ish for me. But everyone always said he’s a wise guy. It’s inevitable that one of his sayings would find meaning in my life.None of it matters. The fight. The scheduling. The constant reassurance. The constant attention. The stir-crazy. The worrying. The justifying. The drama.
- What matters is this; the love. I hope it turns to past tense for you sooner rather than later, but for me it’s always going to be present tense. Once a writer loves you, you can never die. You’ll live on, in my characters, in my words. I love you. Always, until my last day.
- What matters is this; The Week. That week shall be referred to The Week because it was the most magical week of my life. Including the time when someone I love traveled on his leave of deployment to begin something with me, which I treasureD more than anything before you. Including that time I went to Disneyland Hongkong, fulfilling a lifelong dream of mine. I’m sure, including the time I’ll finally be able to set foot in the United States. Including the time I’ll finally be able to attend college. Including the birth of my future children.
Compared to Our Week, all those moments and will-be-moments pale in comparison. To be fair, maybe the will-be-moments will match Our Week. But the memory of Our Week will stay with me throughout my life.
- What matters is this; you motivate me. Even when I whine, I bitch, I moan, you inspire me. Your drive, your goals, your ambition, you, you, you. If nothing else matters, please know that you reignited the fire that died inside of me. You relighted my spirit, resparked my ambitions. If only so one day our paths converge again, and I stand as your equal in our different careers, and our paths cross once again. You are the one who motivated me to get there.
I hope this will be the end of your suffering, but I pray that it’s the beginning of my trial. The pain, so much pain. Pain I will thrive on, pain I will treasure, pain that I will cradle like a child, pain that will fill up the empty cavity in my left chest. I already know this will forever change me, who I am, who I will be. You will be the reason I will succeed. I will succeed and be strong so I will never feel pain like this again. So acute, so profound that even if I wanted to, I would never be able to replicate. The kind of pain you cannot inflict on purpose, the kind that you know must come from outside your body because no one in their conscious mind would ever do it to themselves. The only kind of pain that matters.
Funny. When you heard my voice for the first time, I recited A Dream Within A Dream – Edgar Allen Poe. I did that on a whim, for no other reason that that’s what came to my mind when I tapped the microphone for the first time. I should have known the Universe is not that kind. I didn’t recite it out of wonder, out of innocence. I recited that specific poem because even when I thought otherwise, I was still The Universe’s little bitch. The Universe wasn’t done kicking my ass yet.
That was the exact verse I recited for you.
The rest is fitting to end this. God, my life has literally turned into something befitting Edgar Allen Poe’s novel. A depressing, dark, poem. This fact is very bothersome to me, thank you very much. But I knew that I admired Poe for a reason. There was a reason that his work influenced me, influenced my writing so much.
The reason is you. Poe, from six feet under, had known that I would meet you one day and I would commence self-destruction by this post, and he’d shown his work to me in my early development so I can quote him and give him credit.
Congratulations, Edgar. You can take all the credit for this. I am officially heartless. Literally, you glorious, talented bastard. My heart is beating outside my body. If I didn’t admire you so much, I’d flip you off. Who am I kidding, I’m giving you the finger.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand — How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep — while I weep! O God! Can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
In no time at all, my love. I hope that I, too –shall be nothing but a dream within a dream for you.
P.S. I’m sorry that I made you tired with my constant reassurances and my doubts. I’m sorry I made you tired of saying yes. I’m sorry that that is who I am.
Now you don’t have to be tired anymore.
