Sunday, July 06, 2003
The night before I fly home. Walking out to buy myself dinner, and I'm seized by an urge to forget dinner, and keep walking, and walking, and walking. Forever. Slightly chilly night out, and I'm feeling alone in London.
Reading someone else's blog I can't help but feel her hesitation, and her fear. Fear of losing her direction, of having to choose new directions, of being lost. I want to reach out to her and help. Walking along the road a little later toying with the thought of wildly following my impulses and walking till daybreak - nevermind that I should be packing, nevermind that I'll be on a plane this time tomorrow night, and the fragmented pieces of the puzzle fall drearily into place.
This friend of mine, whom I'm closer to now than I ever have been, is probably my friend because I feel like we have something in common; something easy to understand and empathise with - except that I am somewhere further along the road of fears, and I have chosen wrong. Other people have noticed, other people have voiced to her - and to me although I've never told her, that we should be together, it would make sense. When I hear it, usually I'm seized with an emotion - not quite laughter - oh, if they only knew the forces that drove us. Soemtimes, in a rare fit of humanity, I consider it and think, yes perhaps it would make sense, and yes she is attractive... And then I remember a time when nothing made sense.
And, walking along the sidewalk, placing my feet obsessively in the middle of cobblestones, a sad realisation that I've always known.
I want to help her. I wanted to help my best friend, and was his best man. I want to help my patients.
I've just finished Harry Potter 5. Potter is supposed to have that same wanting to help, that so-called nobility.
I don't know that it's called nobility. Perhaps I want to help because of where I am now. Who I am now.
I remember You, and I remember losing You. I remember what You used to sound like; I remember the moment I brought your world? and mine! crashing down around us. I have faith that yours was rebuilt considerably quicker than my own; my own was a holocast. And gradually, the anger, the guilt, the overwhelming sadness, the wracking reminiscence, the obsession faded. And gradually now, the slow regret is fading as well; and as everything fades, they are replaced with - desolation. A lonely desolation; trudging towards a cash machine and so, so sorely tempted to cast responsibility to the wind and keep walking, mind clear, like the dolls did. To surrender myself, as Potter yearns to, to oblivion when he's under the Imperious curse. And I want to help, because I don't want anyone else to become as desolate, as surely I alone must feel. And then I laugh and realise how self centred that sounds, and that many other people must feel as, or worse than, myself.
Time is passing, and I'm getting older. In a flash, it's been five years. If we were still friends, it would have been 13 years we'd known each other. I've filled the five years... meaninglessly. I've had a meaningless relationship that went nowhere. I've desecrated your memory, almost. I've tried to erase it. I've... gone wrong. And it frustrates me to know that you're only a press of a button a way; just a telephone call away - a very, taboo, telephone call that will never be made.
Maybe part of why I was so drawn to You, was because you gave me hope, that somewhere out there, there was someone else who wanted to help other people other than herself; just simply because she could.
Reading someone else's blog I can't help but feel her hesitation, and her fear. Fear of losing her direction, of having to choose new directions, of being lost. I want to reach out to her and help. Walking along the road a little later toying with the thought of wildly following my impulses and walking till daybreak - nevermind that I should be packing, nevermind that I'll be on a plane this time tomorrow night, and the fragmented pieces of the puzzle fall drearily into place.
This friend of mine, whom I'm closer to now than I ever have been, is probably my friend because I feel like we have something in common; something easy to understand and empathise with - except that I am somewhere further along the road of fears, and I have chosen wrong. Other people have noticed, other people have voiced to her - and to me although I've never told her, that we should be together, it would make sense. When I hear it, usually I'm seized with an emotion - not quite laughter - oh, if they only knew the forces that drove us. Soemtimes, in a rare fit of humanity, I consider it and think, yes perhaps it would make sense, and yes she is attractive... And then I remember a time when nothing made sense.
And, walking along the sidewalk, placing my feet obsessively in the middle of cobblestones, a sad realisation that I've always known.
I want to help her. I wanted to help my best friend, and was his best man. I want to help my patients.
I've just finished Harry Potter 5. Potter is supposed to have that same wanting to help, that so-called nobility.
I don't know that it's called nobility. Perhaps I want to help because of where I am now. Who I am now.
I remember You, and I remember losing You. I remember what You used to sound like; I remember the moment I brought your world? and mine! crashing down around us. I have faith that yours was rebuilt considerably quicker than my own; my own was a holocast. And gradually, the anger, the guilt, the overwhelming sadness, the wracking reminiscence, the obsession faded. And gradually now, the slow regret is fading as well; and as everything fades, they are replaced with - desolation. A lonely desolation; trudging towards a cash machine and so, so sorely tempted to cast responsibility to the wind and keep walking, mind clear, like the dolls did. To surrender myself, as Potter yearns to, to oblivion when he's under the Imperious curse. And I want to help, because I don't want anyone else to become as desolate, as surely I alone must feel. And then I laugh and realise how self centred that sounds, and that many other people must feel as, or worse than, myself.
Time is passing, and I'm getting older. In a flash, it's been five years. If we were still friends, it would have been 13 years we'd known each other. I've filled the five years... meaninglessly. I've had a meaningless relationship that went nowhere. I've desecrated your memory, almost. I've tried to erase it. I've... gone wrong. And it frustrates me to know that you're only a press of a button a way; just a telephone call away - a very, taboo, telephone call that will never be made.
Maybe part of why I was so drawn to You, was because you gave me hope, that somewhere out there, there was someone else who wanted to help other people other than herself; just simply because she could.
