Mostly, I am worried that someone will break into my house in the middle of the night, come right into the place where I sleep, where I am trying to sleep right that instant, and kill me. With a gun or a knife or with their bare bear hands.Mostly. That is the primary concern, but it is far from the only one, and even this one primary concern gives birth to a seemingly endless parade of baby concerns – all these tiny worries swimming around in the stomach of the big worry like fishes inside a whale.

Once I have worried that someone will come into the house and murder me, I start to worry about how they will do it. I have this terrible fear of guns, but it seems to me that if I have to choose between massive head trauma caused by a gunshot wound and being stabbed, repeatedly, hands waving in what looks like it could be a seizure or a new dance move but is really the only stupid struggle I can manage, the bullet is the best way to go. All this worrying between bullets and knives ignores the possibility of being strangled, of course, but we’ve got to narrow the field a bit, so I toss that tiny idea back and focus.

When I’ve worried about the nature of my death nearly as much as it’s inevitability, I begin to worry about my worrying. Worrying ages you prematurely, it causes lines and wrinkles and, I’m sure, any number of other things that I’m told are unattractive, physically, and because I am so worried about all of these problems caused by my worrying, I cannot stop worrying. More than the ways I am making myself less appealing, I worry that all my worrying is for nothing, because I am worrying about things that either are or are not going to happen, regardless of my behavior. I am wasting large amounts of energy and time on all this worrying about things I cannot possibly change. If someone is going to end my life with a gun or a knife or their awful bear-hands, they just are going to do that, whether I lost all my sleep imagining it or not. This builds a new wrinkle in the worry brain, as I realize that I really ought to be concerned as to whether this acceptance of the inevitability and unchangeable nature of certain events means I am giving in to some rising fatalism in my blood, and this is a terrible idea, terrible, terrible, I believe in free will, I believe in impactful actions, I believe in choices, I do, I do, I do. Destiny has no place here, and I am troubled by the fact that there is clearly some part of me that disagrees with the rest of me, and now I am beginning to worry that this war between the vast majority of me and the Falkland Islands portion that is apparently hiding in some tiny spot, maybe by the liver, maybe, maybe somewhere near the the bottom of the spine or nestled cozily between two ribs, will escalate as I age, and I will never find myself in agreement with myself again, ever.

Now I am worried that I don’t know enough about the Falklands War, and I am worried that this reveals that there are many subjects about which I know nowhere near enough, there are all these fucking moth bite holes in my knowledge, and there are not enough minutes in hours in days in years for me to fix this, there is not enough time, there is never enough time for anything really, and that is not a worry so much as it is an understanding, and this forces me to realize that daylight savings time is coming, maybe not soon but definitely some time, and this will be a day packed with worries, worries, worries and all their synonyms, because there is nothing quite so alarming as the offhand subversion of the linear nature of time, and that is an endless hole for me to fall into, and now it is morning, everything is light and I have not slept and I am still worrying and I have to stand up, I have to stand up and walk and dress and move and speak and smile and nod and navigate and drink coffee and read a book and work and speak some more and stand again and sit and walk and I have to do all these things, all day.

(I am in the shower and I am secretly worried that all this worrying is why you don’t, won’t, can’t love me and then I am secretly worried that it is not, because if it is not I still do not understand and sometimes, most of the time, I believe that I can live with anything I can understand, and I would like to give your not loving me a name and put it away with the rest of the things I do not like but do understand.)

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I’m only not knowing that all my strings have been cut when we’re locked in this filthfuck, this grappling in the dirt and the muck that we carry wherever we go. I know I’m a puppet, I know I’m playing games, I know I’m being played, but with your limbs leaving marks I’m forever forgetful for the forever that lasts right up until I get up, take a shower, and go back to the way my life is supposed to be lived. 

 

I keep meaning to lose your number. I keep meaning to lose the need to have you around to make me numb-er. I keep meaning to do a million things I never do, and that this has been an intention for as many as nine years or as few as seven (because time is never linear for me, I have no lucid chronology and this is only one of the ways you know me, the ways you knew me) isn’t terribly surprising. I am almost always fat full of intent and I am also almost always failing. 

 

Every time I crawl out of your car, covered in you, thighs slick with sweat and everything I used to forget that I feel, I am slammed back down to an earth where I am moving precisely how I am told, how I am required. I am set back down, cold, wet, tired and just a little bit less human than I was when I began. 

 

It is these times that I wonder if I am using you for more than the things I know I am using you for. If I have become a mystery even to myself, if I have become such a gifted liar that I am not even capable of telling myself the truth, about this or any of the other stupid and ugly crimes I am always committing, always committed to. It is these times that I think I might be crawling all over you in a desperate attempt to crawl out of me.

I never want to see you again. The first time was only not the worst time because of it’s promise to be the last.

I don’t need to meet you to know you. In my head, we’ve spent at least a dozen years inside one another, filled to the forever fucked brim with every little misery we could offer up together. Our minor happiness was only a brief fantasy, a shared dream that inspired a devotion that bordered on cultlike- we were never what we wanted so desperately to believe in. We were never capable of anything even similar. I wish I knew the way to make you see that we’ll rot in precisely the same pattern, alone or tied to one another, lockstepped and ever as lonely as we are at this moment. I CANNOT CONSOLE YOU, I cannot offer absolution in my skin or the seeming sinew of my limbs. I have nothing to offer you, and it could never have been otherwise.

What we had didn’t mean absolutely nothing, but we ourselves did. We needed so badly to believe in the possibilities offered up by what our child-selves didn’t know enough to keep. But, it seems to me that we will never be the right people at the right time. I know it seems insane that I’ve decided this without your physical presence ever sharing space with mine, but it’s a singular aspect of my borderline psychosis, this decisiveness.

And above all else, be decisive. Make your decisions like a decapitation. Cut off the head in one swift, hard motion, or you’ll never sever the stem. This, I’ve learned in all of your absence.

Absence itself is a physical presence. It is a thing to behold, but never to be held. It is also, curiously, my fate never to be held again, I fear.

I can’t remember the weather the night we met. I want to say it was cold, but how would I know? Drunk is the best jacket, after all, and I was, as is so often the case, either drunk or well on my way. I can’t remember the weather, but I remember that I was on the verge of being rude. It seems sometimes that I am always either on the verge of being rude, or being rude. 

 

Maybe it was the whiskey, the weather I don’t recall, the strange city we stood in, or the quick glimpse I caught of the lines around your eyes. Whatever changed my mind, it changed it fast, and I decided without deciding, without knowing that a decision had been made, to be charming instead. Or some version of it. 

 

We talked. What we talked about is another of the many things I don’t and won’t recall throughout however long we know one another. It could have been important, it probably was. But if it was, it isn’t, and if it wasn’t, it still isn’t. It hasn’t become any part of whatever story we’re writing here, and it’s too late now. I know you just a little still, but that little tells me that you don’t recall either. 
You know what I was wearing, and you know what I was doing when you first saw me, but you don’t know what I said to you. You were watching my lips, but you weren’t reading them. Then, when your lips were on mine, a circumstance I may have caused, I wasn’t speaking anymore, and the words I wasn’t saying didn’t matter any more than the words that I was. 

 

I was full of whiskey you didn’t buy me, and joy you didn’t bring me, and something told me I would know you. 

 

And so I do, after a fashion. 

 

It kills me, as it always will, that you think you know me. That you think you can read me, and predict me. That you believe you have figured me out, and that you are never going to be right, because no matter how well I get to know you, I’ve already figured out that you will never get to know me. I’m not really certain why that’s the truth, but it is. I can’t figure out if it’s a lack of interest on your part, a lack of willingness on mine, some blend of both, or something more ethereal, something I can’t put a finger, my lips, or a name to. 

 

You told me not to fall in love with you, and it couldn’t have been less necessary. You are stunning, all wide shoulders, dimples, that smile and the eyes that make the smile never die. You are witty and sly, elusive and in the moments that you do exist, you make the world shrink and expand in time to some music only we can hear. But you are not a man I will fall in love with. It wasn’t likely, but when you assumed that I might, you killed the possibility in it’s sleep. It didn’t toss or turn, it simply died with a quiet sigh, and it was for the best. 

 

I want our now to be, and I want our now to be better than we think it is. I want our now to be adventures and excitements, I want the one thing I will not have. I do not want you to be my forever, I do not want you to fall in love with me and I do not want to go back and lazarus my being able to fall in love with you back into existence. I want, instead, for at least a moment during which you realize what I am. What I am capable of. I want you to look at me and know me. It is more my fault than yours that that is impossible, I am always, almost accidentally, telling tiny lies even when I am not speaking. I confuse myself, and I hide what is best about me. It is always this way, but given the limited nature of time, there is no time for you to find out what I am like when it ends. You will most likely never find out what happens when something is broken inside you, what happens when the sunlight hits and I feel we need to enjoy the world more than anyone else. 

 

Despite all this, I see something ahead, if not far ahead. I see something that won’t be unforgettable, but won’t be forgotten, either. 

 

 

 

I’m still looking forward to now.

In the questions you ask me, there’s an empty space where your understanding should be. 

 

Of course I don’t worry about tomorrow. I don’t worry about next week or next year, either. I don’t worry about them anymore than I worry about a plane crashing into my house as I sleep, or my leg suddenly developing a mind of it’s own, detaching itself and galloping towards the sun, glad to finally be free of this body, flawed and angry as it is. 

 

I don’t worry about tomorrow, and I wish you wouldn’t either. Tomorrow is always nothing but a maybe while today stares at you screaming yes. Yes yes yes. Yes. Now. Yes. This. This is now and I am happening and we are here and today, yes, yes, yes. 

 

I don’t worry about what could be, and I don’t worry about tomorrow and while there are a million tiny concerns buried under my skin aching to dig a tunnel through me to my face and voice, I realize, always, that there is no sense in thinking of what could be. Be here, be with what is, be with me now and let tomorrow be a concern when it becomes today.

**A note: The person who sent this included a url to a blog. I’m not posting it right now, as I’m not certain that they wanted it included. So, if you’re out there reading this, author, let me know and I’ll happily add it.**

 

i’m
thinking of you again. 
how stupid. 
almost a year and you still have this hold on my heart
my mind, 
my soul 
my BEING
it’s late
i’m high on cocaine, thinking of when we used to share that and then make love
knowing that now
all i have is pornography and your fading memory to satisfy me
i hope that you are happy.
no, i really hope that you are miserable but i know that part of the healing process is letting go 
but i’m not ready to do that yet.
i still love you- i’ll always love you
i hope that you find what you need
and
i’ll still
be here

loving you

—