A long time ago we used to be friends.
At least, I thought we were. These days I’m not so sure. There are a lot of things I’m not so sure about anymore.
I want to throw blame around – because that’s my way. I’ve been cast aside for the beautiful people, the clever people, the far more interesting people. And maybe I have. Most likely, however, my appalling behaviour, my random extreme hatred, my angry hurtling of words, my constant verbal tantrums have once more ruined something I valued. For a studier of history I am awfully bad at learning from the past.
I continue to stab at people and situations with my words. Pretending obscurity, pretending that you’ll never know what I’m thinking, you’ll never understand what I mean. Not really. No really. How I hate this game playing girl. Walking the edge and wounding with words. How can I continue to claim that I both mean and don’t mean? Can I really be so fragmented?
And I was talking about you and got back to writing about me. Maybe I have to be so self obsessed. Maybe I’ll be the only person who is ever that interested in me. That’s not a problem you’ll be having. I’m not even jealous. At least, not in the obvious way.
I’m sure I’ve written extensively on my jealousy; that charming constant of my nature and hurdle to interaction. Hurdle to action, if truth be told. Lately it’s lodged chokingly in my throat. It remains there now while I swallow hard and try to be a better person. Better but new, I think. I don’t know that one can go back and I seem to have moved on. No, at the moment I don’t like this new person either. She frightens me too. She’s fiercer and more practical and full of righteous anger. I think she’ll get things done and make things happen like I used to be able to do.
But I was talking about you. Talking about me wanting to be the person you seemed to like – quite some time ago now. Thinking about you and things I’ll not quite have the courage to say and the handful that I will. I miss the ease, the camaraderie, and the jokes. Things that I thought were there, shared, mutually enjoyed.
I start to think that I’m wrong from start to end. That I misread every word of every phrase. That I’ve misunderstood everything every time. This is me, you know, and it’s quite possible that I have. It is equally possible that I have not and that this is the tragedy I imagine.
With some friends you can have it out. Have a drunken session or some kind of clichéd heart to heart or just flat out say ‘what the hell happened? What went wrong? I miss you.’ That I can’t find any kind of option like that with you suggests to me that it never was. Any friendship was imagined on my side. Have you any idea how good my imagination is? No. I suppose not.