There is something of the melancholy element in me today… Don’t know quite what it is. I think somehow the thinking back yesterday on all my relationships and young women I’ve come into contact with made me sad… To a certain degree. I felt a measure of poetry swelling up in me this morning, bits and phrases, pieces of my emotions coming through inencumbered by the trappings of syntax and conventional grammar (which I usually cast aside anyways). But I don’t think it’s time for that just yet. There’s still prose to be written.
Why do the forces of reality and romanticism seem to be perpetually at odds in my life? Why do I long for those who live far away, are inaccessible, or have long since faded into the mist of previous years? There’s always a simple answer, and I know it. I always want what I can’t have, and on top of that, their distance makes it relatively easy for those romantic upwellings to idealize everything about them. I’m not a doormat, though. I have been in the past, and I’ve learned from it; I take the good with the bad; I’m not so rosy-eyed that I won’t stand by my opinions and tenets. I felt like I tempered my idealism in her case; I watered down the desire to go full-bore, which would have been realistically impossible anyways, as previously alluded to is usually the case… But I wanted to at least keep the lines of communication afloat until…until… Until I don’t know.
And I felt it too–the lack of chemistry sometimes; over the phone, during our conversation at the diner… But something in me fights against that rationale, almost without my control. I want to give reasons it wouldn’t have worked out, but my emotions, seemingly of their own accord, dismiss those reasons. And in presenting counter-reasons, my emotions play their trump card on the realistic side of me by using the essence of what they are, feelings, to induce me to consider the emotional reasons more plausible. And so it never really goes away, it just comes and goes…
I still have her pictures in my daily planner.
I still have the crushed fragment of lavender she sent me from France last summer. It sits in its envelope in a box in my closet, along with all her letters and emails.
I feel so stupid sometimes.
I shall conquer this.