ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- K80 and Teresa I feel a great uneasiness, as if I've done something horrible that I'm not aware of. Flipped a switch that I didn't see. Stepped on a creature that I didn't notice. What the Hell? I took a trip to Mission Valley with the intent of purchasing a DVD player. I came back home six hours later with wrapping paper. What can I say? As I travelled about, I saw the city with unfettered eyes, not being preoccupied with going, going, going. I'm always in transit, from one obligation to another. Always focused on getting "there", never having the chance to see where I am. I took in the sights of the city, a place that I've quoted as "my town", and the realization that, though this may be "my town", it was built for me by her hit me. She built this city for me on her tears and her misplaced love. She did so much for me, treated me so well, felt so genuinely towards me, and all I did was break her heart. She gave me everything and I gave her nothing in return. I saw the Cheesecake Factory, where we once shared a wonderful meal, at her expense. The movie theater where we watched three movies, again, at her expense. The roads that she'd showed me, helping me to acclimatize myself to the city. The shortcuts, backroads, restaurants, hotspots, theaters, clubs, stores. Everything had her stamp on it. She taught me so much, showed me so many wonderful things, gave me so much of herself. I hurt her so badly. I made her doubt herself, her sanity, her ability to make decisions, her willingness to place trust and invest care in others. I broke her, as one would an expensive vase. I broke her and it hurt us both. I weep when I think of what I did. She knows this; she's seen me. It's not a pretty sight. My sobs are violent, large. When I break down, I fucking break. I pity those who've seen it. I broke down and cried in front of her on at least two occasions, and she tried to placate me. After all that I had done, she tried to ease my pain. I never deserved her, and she never deserved what I did to her. She was such a genuine, sincere, good person. I doubt that she is anymore. I don't think that she can be. Once sand is turned to mud, it seldomly becomes sand again, like it was before. It may dry, but it's never the same. Never as fine and loose. Always trapped to the memory of water. I did this to her. And now I'm seeing this city, these sights, these remnants of our pain, and transferring it. Am I doing the same thing? Will I always do the same thing? What the fuck am I? Why am I this way? What the bloody hell is going on inside my head? My excuse for a heart? Will I hurt her the same way that I did those who came before her? Will I allow her to invest all of this care in me? Will I take it, take and take and take, giving nothing in return, and watch her collapse into herself, misshapen and worn like a used, deflated balloon? Will I watch it happen, let it happen, and then justify it later with self-lacerations and pangs of guilt? "Oh, yeah; sure I hurt her. But I feel horrible about it, so it's okay." BULLSHIT! I'm a dick; this I know. I have one and so it comes with ownership. But I don't want to be a dick. I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to hurt anyone, except of course those who deserve it. She's not one of those people. Yet I can see it. I can read it between the lines of her words. Hell, it's in the fucking words! It's plain as fucking day. I'm hurting her and I'm not even trying. I'm shirking responsibilities that I didn't know I had. I'm dropping a ball that I didn't realize was in my hands. I'm breaking a heart that I didn't know that I was holding. I'm sorry. I truly am. Talk to me. Tell me what I'm doing, where I am, who I am to you. Tell me what you want, what you need, what you think I am. I can't be some esoteric "thing" that I don't understand. I can't be a good guy if I don't know what kind of "guy" I'm supposed to be. I'm shaking again. It seems I'm always shaking these days. Like my fingers are storage vessels for my over-exerted brain and they can't handle the shit, either. They are trading spaces in my head. Faces are meshing together, turning into each other, taking from each other, like the anguished death of the T-100 in Terminator 2. I don't want to be anybody's savior or destructor. I don't want to be anybody's god or devil. I just want to make the people who matter to me happy. She is one of these people. She means something to me, something great. Something that scares me, but in the best way possible. I want to see her happy. I've given up on myself, but I can still help others, I think. Or can I? Maybe I'm genetically deficient. Maybe I am Murphy's Law incarnate. Maybe I'll soil everything I touch, fuck up every endeavor I have, destroy everything that I've tried to save. Maybe I'm cursed. Maybe I'm over-dramatic. Maybe I'm tired. talk to me "Where were you when I was calling you?"- Sunny Day Real Estate 3:57 a.m. - 2003-12-27 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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