Melodious Mnemony

I’ve given up on people it would seem, for the most part. I can’t imagine that there would be anyone with whom I would feel comfortable and safe enough around, and who I would like enough. 

Maybe I live in the wrong place. But maybe it’s just me. I’m not sure if it matters anymore. It feels like this is just how things are going to be. I’ll live alone, work until I die, and get almost nothing that I would really want in this lifetime. Not even the consolation of travel. When will there ever be money enough to do such things? All the gains I make are eaten away by life events. I never seem to catch up—with anything, work or money, even though it feels like I labor more and longer by the year. 

This is a very dreary set of thoughts. 

I’ve been trying not to think of any of this, lately. Have been trying to be happy with things as they are, which has basically meant forgetting about all the things I want that are out of reach. Even to crack open the door to those thoughts pricks my heart, and the tears flow, trickling down my cheeks, as they do now. 

Let’s face it. I can’t stop thinking about him. I know he’s not as wonderful as my memory has made him out to be. But to this day, no one else seems even remotely interesting. I know that it would not work out--that the problems that caused him to turn his back on me would only manifest in other ways were he somehow, miraculously, to return. It doesn’t seem to matter much--only a little around the edges. 

His decision to handle things like that—to break things off at all, even now, seems incomprehensible to me. Perhaps that’s because I didn’t really know him. But even in the context of what I did know of him, it didn’t make sense. I felt wary of him—his tendency to disappear for a bit, between times of conversation and connection, was always unnerving. Even though I was blindsided by the suddenness of his rejection, I wasn’t really surprised. But he had always seemed to be a good-hearted person. And he had what seemed to be good—or at least non-nefarious—reasons for disappearing from time to time. Clearly he was having mood issues. He was struggling with his energy levels. It didn’t seem to be because he did not like me—more that he didn’t like himself. 

And maybe, in the end, that’s the explanation. In fact, I think I know that it is. Because nothing else even begins to make sense. 

I wish he would let me speak to him. Even now. I wish he would trust me enough to let me in. I don’t dare reach out again. I don’t want to be a crazy stalker who won’t accept no for an answer and can’t respect personal boundaries. His silence has been, as they say, deafening. 

I can still sense him. Still feel the presence of him. The shape of him. His shyness. His sturdy intelligence. I can see him--his face, his expressions, the way he moves. I can hear his voice in my mind. It’s insane. How can I remember, so clearly, what I haven’t seen or heard in nearly ten months? He has no idea. And probably wouldn’t believe it if he did. No idea, that after all this time, he matters this much to me. I want for him to be happy. I just wish that I could have a part in that somehow. But that is not the world I live in.