Someday I should learn to mix heartache with quality.
It’s just misery. Avoidable misery. I could never, ever go through this pain ever again if I didn’t want to. Because it’s just a tease, really. Even if you keep it until you die, it’s a tease, it’s gone again.
Just as the colors get brighter, the air smells better, it will be that much worse when she’s gone. Love has a way of turning grays vibrant. But again, she’s gone. And the grays are back, blues are gray, greens are gray, pinks, violets, reds are all gray.
I believe this is way it will always be, whether weeks or years or decades. For me, it will feel like she was always there. But she wasn’t, and now she’s gone, and I still have to wake up, still have to work, still want to get on the goddamn computer, and I’m fine.
I’m not hopeless. I’m logical, I can’t be hopeless. Because logically there is hope in everything. Every second that I spent with her, every friend I made, every song I ruined, every movie that won’t ever be as good, I will move on and be rewarded.
It’s not her, that’s what I’ve discovered. What I mean is, she’s incredible still. Because of this goddamn computer, I will be constantly reminded of just how incredible she is. But the pain lies in being alone again. Being alone again, and having to hope that it’s not forever. I have nothing for her but love. She is everything I want, this is the problem. So how would I feel resentment for her? She was who she was, and this is the reason we were together, and this is the reason we are apart.
It hurts. It hurts everytime I think of him kissing her, everytime I think of the certain way she said the certain thing, it hurts the way every relationship ending has ever hurt and will ever hurt, because I took a chance and got the shit kicked out of me and what else is new.
I am not unique. This love was not special or great, and barely worth the words I write.
But that’s what everyone does, right? Because there’s that chance she’ll see. And I’m over it, and so is she, but I have this drive, we have this drive, to constantly be reminding the one who fucked us over that they meant something to us.
I’m glad to be involved in a cliche again. I can only pray for equally mundane inspiration in the future.
And so, Scottie Henry gets added to the list of girls that I have written about. There have been few, and there will be few more. I hope that everyone who reads continues to build their list as well.
It was worth it.
