The voice went away. I hope it comes back. I can’t imagine it not even if it’s just treading water in some tidepool. I may have to find a way to coax it out of hiding. I may have to believe in it more than I’ve come to disbelieve. I may just have to caffeinate myself and fall into the page. Screeds and madness and sentences that don’t make sense. Typos that once were unthinkable, that now crop up when you stop having the word in your eyes as much as you ever had the image.
I have stayed away so long.
It has to do with him, of course. I always wanted to be the sort of girl who didn’t “need” someone. I had to be that sort of girl as I was so unable to…”have” someone. We make the rules ones that we’re already living by so it seems like there’s a plan to it all. It is strange to imagine that so much of the writing of a year ago and prior came out of the loneliness, came out of the yearning and pining, and when provided with regular emotional contact, that desperate, aimless clutching sense of the purpose of the word went away. Or perhaps, just transmuted into a protective silence when the regular emotional contact became something less beautiful than I had hoped. When it became a mirror into my own depressive experience, when I was feeling so frustrated by the ebb and flow of trying to relate to someone so like me. An amusing realization if it wasn’t also so tragic – that we who should get each other best, we who do get each other so well, who hold so regard and esteem for transparent communication…can’t say what we need to say to one another. To be terrified of being invaded by the idea of someone with such unqualified need for me that were I to plate and serve my beating heart, it wouldn’t suffice. In the same moment, to be so angry and disappointed and indignant when no colonizing forces ever stormed the beaches. Waiting for a war that never comes. That the draw, whatsoever it is or was, was never any greater than it was before. It wasn’t different because it was him. It wasn’t motivation enough to overcome his nature. Just as his was not enough to surmount my own.
We are both so stuck.
But I know it’s not about me and this, too, is a problem.
So I have stopped journaling. Effectively. Some writing is happening – other veins that have been slowly spitting and bubbling. Nothing sure.
I think I was afraid that if I wasn’t a broken record on the subject, the voice might be powerful enough to change my mind. It might lead to the pounding, inescapable truth, that this isn’t right. At least not in the form it exists and if I heard that enough from my own thinking mind, I might be forced to speak up and say something to him, a something that, to me, from my perspective, would have to be painful to him for it to be curative for me. We need a break from each other, we need to classify this as a good friendship, I need to just do what I want to do and let everyone else move out of the way of that.