Dear

Well, it's the end of Day Two of the experiment. It's no coincidence that as I write the third and final post in an era (so to speak) of my life, I title it with the third and final song of the end of Carbon Leaf's "Echo Echo" album—the third of a succession of emotional suggestions fitting a perfect pattern. It ends in despair. The song, the three songs, the album: they end in despair. Significant? Yes.

Lie awake and look through the trees
My dear, my dear
I am waiting, breathe my name
My dear, my dear
Drift now to sleep, fall with the rain
My dear, my dear
I'm not awaking, forget my name
My dear, my dear

Perhaps the relevance is stretched; it seemed to fit perfectly when the impression of the song matched the impression of the circumstance. The initial shock has worn off but the bitterness continues to reside. It's the feeling that lasts just long enough that you expect it to continue forever, and then it eventually subsides, until something happens and you realize it hasn't subsided, but you've become numb to the dull pain, and the event that resurfaces the feeling compounds it, and then every time it resurfaces, it gets worse, until one of them heals and subtracts. Some of them won't heal because of the means of attachment, and I guess I'll just have to deal with that.

At the crossroads, two problems present themselves. Primarily, how do I avoid this buildup of shit? I've already tried isolation, but that doesn't work because then through some miracle the numbness disappears. Secondly, instead of going cold turkey on the last operation, it appears that I can sneak small fixes at intervals. That I can still communicate, albeit sparsely, does not bother me (I'm almost excited at the proposition)—I fear the lack of experience gained from the experience for not having actually dealt with the problem. Then again, the current situation is fine in terms of "efficiency", just not in terms of preparation. Then again, the above barely makes sense if you aren't in my head, thinking my thoughts, so why should I bother to write it? It's the hope that somehow someone will understand what I'm saying because I chose the most appropriate English to describe it. I do my best to explain myself without specifics, because specifics can be very, very embarrassing.

I operate on the basic assumption that someone the reader trusts resembles in that manner someone I trust, and then the ideas build from there. It's the trust that was built that causes all this harm. The trust is still there, but what good is trust if you can't continue to share? What good is the secure pipe when the valve has been shut off?

What good is crying when I've got a life to lead? From a socially and economically objective perspective, I've got potential, and not much significant has occurred to deter that. When I crack years from now under all sorts of pressure if I fail to deal with my problems, my case will be another medical mystery. Understanding people might be one of the most important things I can do because I want to prevent people from experiencing my past predicaments and experiencing the pain. Then again, is it bad for them if they never feel it? What wisdom could they have? What good is trust if you have no need to trust?

And perhaps the greatest loss in all this lies in my latest revelation, that my talent for writing has disappeared, and I'm left only with the ability to ramble. I hope and pray that the circumstance cramps my style and that no permanent damage has been done for leaving something so important in disrepair for so long.

No, that's a lie. The greatest loss is my most recent loss, from every internal perspective I can create. Never have I met someone so terribly influential, someone with such terrifying power over my mind and proverbial heart. The contrast is infinite, and sweet Jesus, I miss her. People aren't supposed to do that, not with so little contact. Somehow this person filled some hole I didn't know I had that was placed incorrectly in my head, and I can't think straight enough to compensate. Objectively I'm blowing things way out of proportion, and she would tell me so, and she would tell me that I'm pitiful. I've finally lost control, friends, readers. I've finally lost all of it, and I can't get it back. I was so close.

I was so fucking close.