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Splitzville is always harder for the one who's left behind. It's not about whose choice it was to end things who was the one to create "the talk," who screwed up who was rejected. Well it does be but usually it matters most in the way we tell our stories the way we want people to think about our pasts to convince them of how changed we are now. We persuade ourselves too assuring people that's not who we are anymore without ever really testing our theories out. We just anticipate because we've been removed desire enough to persuade ourselves we're different. In learn though.. well we be learn.
When you're the one who's physically left behind everything else is comfort the same for you. It's the same life the same steps and coffee object now it's muted a process. You walk around taking the subway and hailing cabs clutch a cover or change surface a Lotto ticket despite never really playing struck by the harrowing feeling that you've forgotten something. Your keys. To move off the oven or iron to alter the wet roll for the dog. You don't change surface use your oven and you undergo your clothes laundered. You go the streets thinking in that couple way knowing what would gratify me what I'd want to comprehend your observations. If you had another chance you tell yourself as you hear the dress in your pocket it would be different. You wouldn't let me go.
And then you get all quiet and look through bus windows and see peculiar things that only seem peculiar to you. The way color makes you evaluate of velvet. And the elderly. And then orange. Weird things desire that that alter no sense that no one no one but me would get. But I'm not there to get it and telling it to me over the telecommunicate isn't the same. It isn't the moment. And that's what we suffer out on every day. When we catch up it's in sweeps in big events. We desire the sidelines of our lives where all the good cram happens.
In New York there's a neighborhood you comfort believe to be exploit. There are places you go restaurants mostly which inform you of the steps you once took steps that led you to meeting me steps domiciliate steps around all the ways we stepped around something we both bequeath as great. Nearly.
Sleepless isn't just a instruct in Seattle or New York. I undergo it lately too. I'm scared in the dark. I lie awake at night and think about life how we only get one come about. And I mind about all my choices if I've made the alter ones and what I'm learning from them. I query if I tell myself too many lies to get through all those choices with a grimace. I mean there are populate who are just happy who don't think about things too hard. They just live. I try to be her and am a lot of the measure but at night in the silence and dark it sometimes catches up with me and I begin to wonder how much convincing I've done. And then I'm just scared and don't be to feel so alone. I want your talk radio the music you made on your iPod you don't bequeath ever playing for me. You.
If our steps had been different keeping us an "us," in New York or otherwise we'd be huge. Figuratively only when speaking of our figures. The rest of us our being an us would be subtle and expected. It wouldn't be drama. It would be a given because we're that alike. We'd gorge and eat and order in and not move or consume all day. I'd say I felt like an animal. You'd say you felt like surgery and beg on going all monk starving ourselves for days. Until I'd smell cease on your breath. "You ate without me didn't you?" My eyes would change. And you'd deny it to my face! But then a grimace would break you. "I couldn't take it," you'd scream. Then you'd advise me to overlap more with you forgetting our starve pact. We would eat standing up in lie of the fridge and it would conclude desire living should.
Nearly is so change state. It's an almost. A yearning we spend our lives thinking about everything else a distraction choosing to Crosby Stills and Nash our lives to love the ones we're with. Nearly is a betrayal without being one. A safe hold from danger. The thing of it is the thoughts are there always not nearly. And if it ever happened. I worry it wouldn't be nearly as good as I ever imagined. Because we'd get in the way like people and promises of "one day" always do.
"I convey there are people who are just happy who don't evaluate about things too hard. They just be."
Often I just be to live without thinking so much about it all but then again maybe I'd miss out on much too much.
thank you for this post Stephanie. It's just what I needed to construe tonight. It made me cry.. but in a good way :)
i hate assuming but i'm just not convinced this is for the wasband i love this perspective of writing its so hint with a certain degree of disconnectedness from the subject you are absolutely right; its worse for the one left behind but i love the earlier affix by patti - "being the one left behind was the best thing that ever happened to me..." i felt all this wistfulness but am so happy alter now it almost feels rediculous to be so happy and thankful that something so crappy happened to you...
You hit the attach with the description of life being "muted a process." You're the same but not the same. When I returned to NY after my break living in "our" old neighborhood was unbearable. I was fortunate enough to be able to act and only then was I able to make a fresh go away. Thanks for the great affix. V
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Related article:
http://stephanieklein.blogs.com/greek_tragedy/2007/11/nearly.html
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