“To define me is to disrespect me, to manipulate me is to misdirect me. To deny me, is an insurrection. That is not love.”
“To call you an anarchist is perhaps the correct term, although convention stipulates that you are very much an Archist. You do everything by the bloody book, you are courteous, smart, and use your smarts courteously. You talk to me in numbers, facts and ailerons that guide this otherwise tumultuous flight on a course of directness. And in your directness there are an infinite amount of deviations that espouse a growing sense I have of your intolerance to absolutely every fucking thing you seem to lay your eyes on.
Am I pissed?
Yes. I hate feeling that every time I object to something you do, you shove me aside, put on the brakes to our indestructible relationship and dump me. You switch off, go quiet, ignore me and make me feel worthless. Do I make you feel the same? Well perhaps, but is it really the end of the world my love?
Do I need to make it any clearer how much I love you and want to be with you? Except whenever this happens between us, not only do I feel it coming like a bleeding great juggernaut heading toward me at high speed, but I seem to be overwhelmed by the feeling that I must engage with the front fender like a rabbit caught in headlights, standing my ground like a proud fool, not wishing to kowtow to your obvious misgivings and consequent rudeness. Then I am left wondering how you steamed right over me, turning me into road-kill, fodder for the ravens and vultures that lurk just in the periphery.
You have to know that you are not the only one that finds this behaviour tiresome, and you are certainly not the only one that wants nothing more to do with it. It seems to turn on a weekly cycle, having occupied the Sunday spot up until recently, now having shifted to a Wednesday since your road rage incident when I was with you last. That was a Wednesday; and it seemed to cement and shift the day of ignition. I say ignition because you are like a bomb waiting to go off almost like clockwork once a day, once a week. I really thought I’d managed to dodge that bullet this time, this particular week. But I see that I was being remiss in my estimations.
I keep telling you this, in fact I have stopped since the last time you dumped me unceremoniously, last Wednesday, but I have said repeatedly that I can read you like a book. How do you think I can love you as much as I do? Because I’m connected to you. When you pull away I feel it like I’ve been disconnected from the mains socket. When you connect fully with me however, I feel like I’m flying high. I’m so full of love for you, for us and I feel as though there is nothing that can keep me from you. But my god you make me work fucking hard for your affection!
I have no clue how I’m supposed to be around you, without breaking the delicate shell-like membrane that you insist on residing within, cocooned in your prison like an incubating dragon waiting to grow to maturity. I know the version of you I want and would prefer, and I’m working damned hard at manifesting that version of you like you would not believe. The you that discards me on a whim is the one that needs to leave this relationship. He needs to find his own way, somewhere that he can grow without destroying those he loves around him. That part of you I dislike intensely, and I want nothing to do with him. I know he is a remnant of persons past for us both, but I have no intentions of taking him with us in this incarnation of my life. So if you have a semblance of faith in us at all then you will apologise and make amends because you know and feel that you should preserve us and encourage us to grow in the way that we both know we can. You will message me because you will feel my intent and understand that I am worth more than your pre-emptive wrath.
I’m a fool and you’re an idiot. I want you to fight for me, but I fear you already gave up several Sundays ago. You gave up the ghost and threw me out with it. Maybe you aren’t here because you wouldn’t be good for me or yourself in your current state. At a distance your torrid behaviour is easier to tolerate, then again maybe it isn’t. I always feel like I undergo a death when you get mad with me. You push me as far away from you as possible and it makes my lady parts hurt. I feel my personhood shatter into tiny shards, and I no longer wish to participate in anything. You break me so you can remould me it seems. You tear down my preconceptions and desires likes a force of nature, exposing me for all to see as far as the next fucking galaxy. You make me burn bright like a raging star, reminding everyone who can see me in the infinite Universe of their fate, should they err even just a little from their heart’s intent. And for what? Why do you need to destroy everything in your life until it no longer functions in the way that you found it? Is that what happened to you?
I am not you, yet you reflect me perfectly in so many ways that I will never fathom.
Then in one fell swoop you change everything, press ‘reset’ and the world is full of hope once again. Once that is, you have got over whatever it is you are finding yourself dealing with.
The thing is, I’m here and you, well you are somewhere else entirely. You are nowhere near me at all. You may as well be living on a different planet for all I know. I am in a relationship with a man who is thousands of miles away, weeks of planning away, and hundreds of dollars far from me most of the time. Through the magic of current technology that distance seems to shrink a little as I see your face in real-time streamed through the airwaves like a thought-form turned cinematic. I hear your voice as if you were sitting in my head, just within arm’s reach. But then disappointment creeps in as not so very deep down I realise that you are in fact nowhere near me at all. I couldn’t reach out and touch you no matter how much I wanted to. You are a figment of my imagination gone rogue, a fantasy that like a dream I seldom experience with any kind of physical cognition.
I sometimes catch myself wondering where this ring on my finger came from or what it even means, when it only sits on my finger. An abstract notion of connection that is no more than a piece of metal with scraps of the earth carved and polished and set within its cold hard yellow surface, made to look more special than it really is. This ring will never be enough to convince me of anything. I’m really not that much of a fool, although I can be a fool at times. I am not so deluded and a follower of convention that I would fall for that old chestnut. I am more than fully aware of how much work maintaining a relationship takes, and that no cold hard physical object will ever be enough to do that work for me. A cold hard guideline, a reminder, a prompt for the warmth of the flesh and the heaving of a beating heart, and the aspirations of an active imagination that seeks physical expression. If you have faith in us then you will let me know right now. If I do not hear from you, then I will know that you mean to kill us both with your arrogance and shame. That you plan to set us apart as a failed enterprise that was never going to take off because the landing gear had already been previously damaged. I look at the empty blackness of the magic device, and I see that you are not really there. You have abandoned me. You have returned to wherever it is you are, and I am nothing more to you than water vapour on your sturdy fuel-filled wings, a contrail left to disperse quietly and slowly over the expanse of the sky; a huge scar across the universe that will never properly heal, but be reabsorbed into the ubiquitous atmosphere, churned around by the weather systems that pattern and temper the lands and the souls who reside upon and within it. Reabsorbed into the dynamic and ever-changing nature of consciousness, and always I am far from you as you fly into the sun.”