You're Reading What She'll Dismiss as Trash

I know at this time it appears, if you’ve taken notice, with your busy schedule I’m sure you haven’t, that I’m in the process of doing nothing more than going into my disappearing act - where you don’t hear from me for another year.  Then, for some reason, I reach out again, reemerge from whatever rock I was living under, we hang out two or three times, watch some movies, go to Wal-Mart, repeat the same jokes, same stories, scenarios, names and outcomes, but this isn’t what’s subtly taking place, this note, message, memo, letter, whatever you choose to label it, melodramatic, is, basically, my final farewell, the last good-bye.

The last time you & I got together could have gone better.  On the surface I’m sure it seemed like your atypical time with Jon.  He said weird things that raised questions and laughs, nothing more.  It was during our trip to Brookfield that things took a potentially dangerous turn.  We talked of existentialism, serial killers, and all that.  I went off on my rant; my seemingly insane babble….I can guarantee you have no clue why.

Earlier in the evening you were telling me about Steve, how he doesn’t fully meet what you look for in a guy.  Sure, he makes you laugh, makes you feel safe, and doesn’t give you looks questioning your sanity when you say odd things, but he can’t hold a stimulating conversation, he reads Tom Clancy.  You long, perhaps too strong a word, you want a guy who can make you laugh, who accepts you for you, all your quirks and flaws, which are fewer in number than mine, and can hold a conversation on a broad spectrum, going from, I don’t know, sesame street to Camus.   After you finished I had to hold back, with every bit of pathetic strength I have, to scream at you “THAT’S ME,” but I held my tongue, knowing that I had twice before, no thrice before, told you about my feelings for you, and how you, subsequently, let me down, in your defense, much more gently than some others have, for whatever reason.  I could speculate as to why we’ve never been more than friends, my neuroticism, my unsociable personality, height, whatever superficial excuses I could think of that would lead me to believe that you find me not the least bit attractive in any sense, but it would me a miniscule argument, pointless, hopeless, mundane, moods I’m too familiar with, and moods I don’t intentionally place upon the lives of others.

I could go on about the remainder of that night, the choices I made, the irreversible actions I almost went through with, but I don’t want this last correspondence to you from me to sound like a pathetic plea for one last chance, and this stands for two reasons:

I know that you never will give me a chance to prove to you that I can be so much more than a seemingly eccentric outcast who does funny voices for his cats, and because, as pathetic, hopeless, meandering and seemingly nonexistent, as I am, I refuse to sink to a level so low as to basically say “if you won’t love me I’ll kill myself,” because that is not the case.  I would end my life for no one; would I lose all hope and walk around mindless, emotionless, totally detached?  It’s more than possible.

I suppose I just keep trying to ignite a fire that refuses to give in, to accept the burn of the spark that could feed it with enough potential to birth a wonderful cohesion of two people.  I would like to say that I accept the fact that I’m nothing more than a momentary source of laughs and meaningless insight to you, but I can’t.  I know that, if I do cut myself off entirely from your life, I will continue to have dreams where you randomly appear.

On an ending note, please do not take this as a personal attack of character, but I have to briefly give my opinion.  You said that love is bullshit.  Well, I think you’re simply scared.  From what I’ve heard your past experiences haven’t been entirely fulfilling.  Granted every relationship has its flaws, be they microscopic or vast, I think that you just have yet to meet the one man, or who knows, woman, that can make you feel as if you are the most beautiful woman they’ve ever seen, your self-conscious critique aside.  I think you just lash out in fear, like the angry puppy whose been mistreated so often in the past, and although they want to be loved, to be cherished, to be seen as a goddess, they’re simply too afraid to trust anyone with their heart, with their love, with their body and trust.

I’d like to say that maybe I could be he, if given the chance, but we’ll never know, because I am simply
simply a faint, almost inaudible whisper, and in a world of loud screams, incessent rambling and over the top speeches, why pay any attention, let alone give a chance to something you can't even hear?

So, reply to this if you wish, in a letter, on the phone, in person with a slap to the face. If it not be your will to even acknowledge it's existence, as some have done before, so be it.