To the point the roses turned away

This feels like a confession, and perhaps that’s what best describes it anyway. It has been wearing upon my soul all year, and I feel like the last dregs of sanity are dripping out of my eyes. This won’t make it better — that I realize —, but I feel like I just need to shout at the air because my personal writings, that I don’t post here, just won’t do. I’m not looking for answers or suggestions because I need to do what I believe is right. And maybe, though I am being overly optimistic, I will find the answer in my own words as I have many a time before.

So there is this girl… Well, months ago we had a falling out. No, I will not elaborate on what here, as that is not my practice or form to reveal such things publicly. In any case, I tried to talk to her about it, but she didn’t want to, and so we stopped talking altogether. The last time we talked was in January. Now, she wonders why I won’t make small talk with her. We work together so I say enough to get the job done, but nothing more.

But what do I do? I hate the silence, but I simply can’t make small talk when such a huge gap remains. At this point, I don’t even know if I want to try to mend whatever there is, and absolutely won’t pretend like we’re okay when we aren’t.

It took me over 4 months to get her out of my mind. But every time I look into her eyes, I feel drunk and woozy, hungover and sick, on their Bourbon-barrel brown. My mind knows the absurdity of it all, but, somewhere in my heart, she has permeated the flesh and I cannot wring it out. Terrifying. It is terrifying to admit and write such anathema to my mind. Even if I am 95% free, how has all my hard work only brought me to here? By fire and flame, I have seared my heart to try to burn away all traces of her.

But I can’t, won’t, demonize her. She is still a wonderful person. Maybe that is why. It’d be easier if I hated her, easier to push her out if I could convince myself that she was some monstrous person. But she isn’t.

I don’t mind being the ‘bad guy’ or a ‘fool’ or any other insult people choose to hurl at me for how I have handled the situation. In the end, I am me, and that is all I can be. There must be an answer somewhere, but it remains to be seen.

I’ve always hated the saying that time heals all wounds. No, we just adapt to the pain, learn to cope with a little more suffering each day. Emotional wounds are no different. Indeed, if we cover them in bandages and trap in infection, they may well begin to fester and become gangrenous, one and the same as physical wounds. As for now, I feel as though my heart bubbles with pustules and yet I am denied antibiotics. Am I just lying to myself though? Do I really want my heart to be “healed”?

What do I want? Freedom? Yes. Healing? Yes. Her? No. Maybe. I don’t know. My mind is sure, but the heart is indeed deceitful above all things. Forget Benedict Arnold or Vidkun Quisling. The greatest turncoat is our own heart. To execute it for treason or bestow it medals for bravery? Stupid. I am, all of this is, just stupid.

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