I try, really try. So hard that tears somehow find their way past my lashes and onto my skin. I can taste them when I breathe in, salty and sad. I can't seem to best this part of me. No matter how many skirmishes I win, the battle seems downhill and hopeless. What is it about me that keeps holding onto this piece, refusing to set it free, refusing to be whole without it? Every time I think I have bested it, it appears beside me in the mirror, mocking my confidant smile, bringing me back down.
I am sorry that I can't be more.
It is something like spring outside. The sky has been grey and cloudy and the sidewalks are moist with puddles and worms scattered along them. Everything is green, bright and verdant, and, against the wet brown of the trunks, the leaves seem to shine like stars. I love New York in the spring. As soon as the sun begins to shine, people put away their sweaters and coats, donning on shorts and t-shirts though we all know it is still to chilly for such clothing. The slapping sound of flip-flops fills the air wherever you go and bathing suit shopping is the focus of the hour. And it's only May. But the summer, hot as it can be, never lasts long and the natives know that if they aren't prepared, it could pass them by. That is why we sunbathe in the middle of April, whenever there is sun, and swim in water that could conceivably give us hypothermia. You might think we're crazy but that's because you're an outsider. Only the natives understand New York....You don't like the weather here? Wait five minutes, it will change.
I am so tired of trying to be strong. I am afraid and weak and at the end of myself and I don't know where to go from here. There are so many enormous decisions that must be made and I want to know that I am doing the right thing. When I am alone, I seem to know what I must do but then I think about what others might think and I freeze. I was sure that I had conquered this but it is rising up in me again and I am filled with bitterness. It is so easy for those around me. I don't understand why I struggle so through all of this life stuff. What is the lesson? Some days just feel like Mondays.
I think I knew that it would end this way. The whole time, I wanted it to be different, to be something more. But deep inside my heart, I could feel the pulling away. I warned myself quietly not to get too involved. I placed a large wall in the way, because I knew - how can two people from two different worlds ever live a life of love together? There are no answers that will make this easier for either of us. We can pass and smile, but there will never again be that spark in our eyes when we see one another. And yet, I can hope for the future. For without that hope, what do I have left? Love seems to be a lesson for me. I hope I learn before the next time around.
I can't seem to get this right. No matter how hard I try, I fall for it every time and it gets harder and harder to pick myself up. I say I won't let myself hurt like that again, I say that my heart is fine, but I lose a piece every time this happens. And maybe the truth is, I set myself up to fall like this. I mean, everyone falls at one point or another; maybe I just make sure it is earlier on so there is less pain and I am in control of the decision to let go. Or maybe, I am afraid of what will happen the first time I make it without falling. I just don't know if I can fly anymore.
The world it spins with not a thought about you,
and life breathes in, breathes out and lets you go.
Time moves on as though it never knew you,
and you are gone.
Slowly, methodically, and with intent you began to write me out of your script. It started with small lines, short scenes where I was not allowed to make an appearance. My character was replaced with no-names or whomever was handiest. Holding back tears, I accepted my fate, ever hoping that if I just stayed near to the cameras, you would somehow let me back into the final scene. But it never happens the way that we want it to.
At the premier, I saw how pleased you were, standing, watching the credits roll. I sat on the last row, close to the door, in the dark. I never saw my name, but what hurt more, you never realized that it was not there. I left before you could see my shoulders shaking with sobs that would not be swallowed. And you never called to see where I was.
Still, you should know, I am your biggest fan. I hope you get an Oscar.
