The man I love, that I lost my virginity to, is gone. Almost dead in my active thought process. I do think of him, but the feelings that erupt inside of me are hardly explanatory. I can't say that I'm in a horrible amount of pain or totally remorseful. It's almost like my wounds are scabbing. After 8 days.
What baffles me is how stable I am. Why fight it? Because it's eeriness is killing me.
The idea of us getting back together becomes more fantasy than realistic fiction...if that's even a genre. It offered an insecure and dependent hope at the initial moment, but is now an incredible event indeed. Fantastical really.
I don't know where I'll be in ten years. Maybe in his arms, maybe in a woman's or maybe just my own. Wherever it is, I would just like to accept it. Appreciate the future as something so trivial and vain upon which to muse, because in turn I lose moments in the present.
Now, today and at this moment I'm OK. To think of him doesn't offer comfort as much as it does fear. The ugliness might just start the next time we talk. Deciding to 'maintain' the friendship that never existed could cause the negative repurcussions I've been avoiding. Maybe all this bad shit will unleash then...the badness between he and I, I and I, and maybe just I. Oh, how self-absorbed is the writer to assume somebody cares. I refer to the self more often than not.
Fearing the future won't get me anywhere except to a very tired point. So I enjoy the moment and don't question it, realizing this multi-faceted thing called 'Eleanor.'
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