I have found, in my rare moments of reality, that I am alone in ways I cannot readily describe. The things I have always held closest to me have moved on with their lives. Onto brighter shores and, perhaps, better things. I wish I could say that makes me feel immature, that it motivates me to follow that path and be, for all intents and purposes, an adult. I wish I could feel bad about not aspiring to loftier things, about not having what the people I cherish have for themselves. But the truth is, I just feel loss.I feel lonesome. I feel as if, when you strip down all the things I've crafted around myself to make me more appealing, I'm really little more than a child in desperate need of affection, attention. And that isn't the sort of thing a grown-up should discover.
I recall our last nights together, and how I wished for an island with a volcano. Those moments, those slivers of time could be petrfied. Paradise is my Veuvius, and you could be my Pompeii.
I'm languishing. Where once I wrote lavishly of beauty, of men and women that I'd loved, now I just dwell on the things I've callously left to die, the things that have carelessly left me. All the while using enough adverbs to make and old professor of mine angry enough to throw a terminally-ill octogenarian through a plate glass window.
I remember the simple things I took joy in. The simple things that still bring me those overwhelming feelings of...what? Peace, I suppose. Contentment. Something good that feels slightly squishy in the guts. The problem seems to be that I lack some of those things, and the ones that are readily available are hardly as enticing as they used to be.
Mostly, I'm just tired of being in love.
Yours,
-S.R.
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