Wanderings

 As I write this, I know you've already made up your mind. I know this 'letter' is in vain, and yet here I am writing it nonetheless. I know you're leaving, in theory you left a long time ago in the emotional and mental sense. It is just the physical manifestation of you that has stuck around. It's not a a surprise, you've left before. It is a sad commentary on my life that it generally takes people more than once to leave. They come and go, but never quite leave. It's frustrating, it's painful, and it's fantastic all at the same time. It's just a question if or when you'll be back. I don't know that answer, I've never known that answer, and I probably never will. I am sorry I am not, can not be the man you want or need to be. I am not sure I can be the man anyone needs me to be. That is something I have yet to sort out, and at this advanced age, I am beginning to wonder if I ever will sort it. 

The process of you leaving is a painful one, it is not something I enjoy watching, especially since, in theory, I am supposed to be able to stop it. Maybe you'll head west, maybe you'll be in Amarillo by morning, or Los Angles to live forever, maybe you'll wash up on the beaches of Cheyenne, or Denver with the snowfall.  Or maybe you'll head south to somewhere like Cartersville, Georgia, New Orleans, or San Antoine, where they like to break legs. Who knows perhaps you take out for points east, head up to Boston in the springtime with friends who have lots of room, or spend some time in New York, New York. Perhaps north suits your purpose, they say Cleveland is cold, and south Detroit doesn't exist, but somewhere up there is the starting point of the Mississippi River that you can cross in five steps if you try. Who knows where or in what direction you'll go, all I know is that you will go, and that is enough to break the springs of my soul. 

I know for the time you are gone, I'll be in love with your ghost for a while. Ever been in love with a ghost? Of course you haven't. Let me clue you in to how it feels. You pine away for something that used to be, something you had and then lost. The major problem is you've no real idea how you lost it, which is a bit sad and perplexing. Your first instinct is to blame yourself, because if someone ghosts you, then it must be your fault right? Which is what they want you to think, as they fade into the mists of your history, they want you to blame yourself. They want the cancer of your intellect to feed upon, and eventually destroy itself thinking it is your fault. 

Truth is you have left for fairer weather, leaving me in the middle of a storm of painful self recrimination. and worse self -doubt. You have made me doubt myself, not the greatest accomplishment in the world, but one that redounds to your fame. You are sailing happily away, indifferent to the fact that you left me tearing myself apart searching for some sort of actual reason that you left. You leave me here stupidly in love with your ghost, expecting you will come back, because you have before, and idiotically hoping that you will again.  The smart money, which is not my money, is that I have seen the last of you. It's the easy  bet to make, and the easy to pay bet. The bet that simple minded men who don't like to take chances place. The type of bet that you expect to pay something because it's simple and it's safe.

Simple and safe are not words anyone would use to describe you, and the bet I place in my storm of goofiness is that you'll be back. The odds are not forever in my favour, nor will they ever be. I want to let what happened between us stay in the past, but all we have is a past. We have had a fleetingly attempt at a present, but never really possessed a future. The joy of this for you at least, is that wherever the fuck you are, you will sleep the sleep of the 'just' tonight. Safe in the knowledge/belief that you've done nothing wrong. Drooling the drool of remorse into the pillow of regret is not something you will be doing. No, the sleepless nights belong to me. The one you left, the one still trying to sort what I did wrong.

However, after considerable thought, I have eventually, slowly, come to the conclusion that I did not do anything wrong. Forgiving you is easy, not that I have, or ever will, but that the easy bit. It's the forgiving myself that is that hard bit. Being stupid is something that takes a long time to forgive. Don't give a scorpion a ride across the river and be shocked when he stings you in mid stream and drowns you both. I want you to burn to the ground, but I stubbornly refuse to light the match to make it happen. More the fool to me I suppose. Somewhere in me are another 2-4 thousands words telling the world what a disaster you are, and what a fool I am/are for standing around waiting for you to return. Those words need not be typed tonight. Let's just settle for the simple fact that, to quote Blink 182 "I love you, but I hate you." 

For those of you that wonder where Felix has been, fear not he's still here, and with these two bad attempts at writing, we have rekindled Felix's interest in ruining our life.