Yeah, I still haven’t moved away from my mindset of, “I’m here to support you every step of the way!” so I guess I’ll leave these here, where you’ll never see them, instead of giving them to you. It would be wrong to. I know you don’t want me talking as much as I do, I'm annoying and obviously don't get the message.
Sorry…
http://the-write-idea.tumblr.com/
http://www.jobprofiles.org/library/students/50_awesome_open_source_resources_for_online_writers.htm
I'd like you to know that I believe in you and know you'll be a great writer someday. When you're published, I'll buy your book and show all of my friends, sad as it might be by then. Really, though.... I really believe that you'll make it. Even if you think English is a dead-end. It isn't, and you're going to be wonderful. I would've loved to be the one there for you when you spend weeks locked in some office, papers strewn everywhere, letting your beard get way too wild while you don't really take care of yourself because you're too busy on a writer's roll. I can clearly picture your desk, with its chewed pen tops thanks to your oral fixation, empty cans of Coke Zero and Guinness stacked around like it's nobody's business, the little clay elephant I made for you sitting beside the small piles of crinkled gum wrappers, and your smudged glasses resting on the one bare surface there is, because you can't be bothered to stop to clean them, and they're just far too dirty to wear by then. But the day you end up adding the period to the end of that last sentence, I'd still walk in and give you a great big hug and a kiss, and say "Well done." Even if I'd barely seen you for weeks on end. Even if you'd been silent as the grave because you had a thought that had to come out, unfettered. Even if I was kind of mad at you for ignoring me for your work.
I'd get over it. You'd be mine, you'd be scruffy as hell, and I'd be ok with that. So long as you maybe took a shower, because it's likely you'd smell a little. And maybe trimmed up, too.
Dear God. I have so many daydreams still. I hope they fade away soon.
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and am letting all of what I’m tangled up in just fade and settle to the bottom of the glass in my right hand.
Cheers to the mist that’ll help it disappear.
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The first of the two was from a little over two weeks ago, and the second, maybe 10 days back, at about 1:30am, when I was so sad I let myself into the liquor cabinet downstairs, which I've never done before in my life. God, I'm exhausted right now. Ugh -- I keep saying God, which reminds me of how on Tuesday, I spent an hour in the basilica in London, praying to a God I don't even believe in, in the hopes that maybe he'd hear the two things I asked for. You were only one of them, I promise... there have been other serious things on my mind as well, lately. I'm sure it's easy to guess, if you were to look at my Tumblr, or even a recent post on here. But mostly, tonight, my mind's on you.
The scariest part for me is that I'm catching myself doing what I've always done to get away from pain -- I remove the source. I am literally going to forget and otherwise block out all of the memories I've gathered and stored, then I'm going to desensitize to everything for a long, long time, and then, I'm going to get to the point where I couldn't care less what happens to you. Soon after, you will stop seeing me. The amount of participation you'll have in my life will be looking at the pictures I post to my Facebook profile, maybe wishing me a happy birthday, if you think to do so. You will not hear from me. You will not be able to tell me about how things are for you. We will meet up for coffee in ten years, if I remember your name, and say how life's going. Then, we will leave and go opposite ways like nothing happened. And that hurts me.
You said you wanted to stay friends, and be able to talk, and have more than what I just described. I tried to get towards that point, but even though I made the effort (it was painful, by the way; I did it because I would have rather hurt than completely lose out on you) you threw cold water on it and left me standing alone and feeling like a complete idiot. I half-knew I wouldn't be able to do it anyway. It wasn't all-or-nothing; it was a sore heart, and a gaping hole that I figured would soon be filled by someone else, or a variety of someone-elses, both of which would break me to watch occur.
I'm going to stop being me, to you. But I guess it's part of the process. After all, you stopped being you, to me. Your presence feels different. You're as attractive as ever, and your smile (however infrequent around me) still sends me spinning, but you're guarded, like I'm watching a recording of you interacting with someone else, rather than me. And you don't care, you can show that all you like. You aren't obligated to care.
I hate that word. Was I really only an obligation?
Sorry -- I guess I just hate this whole thing. But hating only fuels the fire that burns it all away, so maybe I'll feed it some more.
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