Thursday, July 29, 2010

Harder than anticipated

Relapse Post #6
Still here. Still believing in the same dream that didn't work out last time. Trying to breathe life into something that may have never actually existed anywhere but in my mind. Knowing the effort is futile and still trying. Did you not understand the word "hopeless" in hopeless romantic? That's love. That's me.

Don't worry about me, I'm worried about you.

Well, that was quick.

I've been trying to reconcile the concept of Sporty reading this. It will not be as easy as I first thought.

At one point I'm trying to express who am, and with that those associated feelings I have towards her, without ... well, you know. But then a lot of what I write has a natural dramatic tension, so it's again, a balancing act of sorts. This little internal drama stems from me trying to write a blog post and re-reading it I found myself with an "odd turn of phrase". I had to question if I wrote it just to elicit a certain response from her.

For clarification, the bit of writing that troubled me was about that day I know is coming. The day when she says something along the lines of... "I've met this guy".

It doesn't promise to be my best day ever.

She and I don't normally talk about other guys. Or, now that I think about it, girls in regards to me. Not normally. It didn't really feel organic in the past, and now I think I'm scared. And we talked a lot. So I know when she brings it up, whoever she'll be talking about, whenever this is, will be, well, someone er, of note.

You see, in trying to describe that day I know is coming in the future, I started to write about how she first told me about the guy she eventually agreed to marry from before. I went all sound and fury, signifying nothing. Reading it, I couldn't decide if I was being overly honest or desperately dramatic. It felt manipulative. It read like the post I made the day after it happened, but like I'd run the memory through a pity filter trying to highlight particularly painful colors of the moment. It was either poetry or pure shit. I couldn't decide which.

By the way, I can clearly say that day she told me, also wasn't the best ever. So I got one down, and one coming.

But as far as this here blog goes, I got to figure something out. I don't want to compromise my voice, end up whispering into the darkness instead of screaming, and she doesn't want me to. But how do make sure I'm just saying what's on my mind, and not subconsciously directing something at her.

Tricky. No subliminals.

So I got a plan. Might work, might not.

Before there was a blog, I had a little thing I wrote that I updated from time to time with my feelings about me and her. She says I do a lot of words, but for a while, words were all I had. Over the course of, I guess three years, I would update it when the mood struck with what was going on, frustrations, hopes, thoughts, how I felt about things. There is actually less writing there than I remember, since months went by between updates, but it is : unfiltered, uncut, pure. Not really intended for publication, ever. It includes times when I felt good and bad about hanging out with Sporty. And conveniently, at least for these purposes, it stops on Monday, November 19th, 2007.


I'm going to cut it up in small chunks and see how that goes. Between now and when that runs out, I'll either have balanced how to say some things without ulterior motives, or I won't. And we'll see from there. know.

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