When I was a teenager, I kinda knew that, when I got older, stuff would hurt less. Now I'm 54, been all alone my whole life, but I really don't hurt as much anymore. Over the years, I've squeezed all of the tears and pain possible out of myself, now I just sit here alone, and do nothing, and feel nothing. Not even numb, "numb" is a feeling. I'm just here. I'm looking forward to this unbelievably long thing called "life" to be over, I'll admit that.
When I was a teenager, I fell in love with someone. It goes without saying that she did not love me. This was the first of hundreds of such experiences I had ... never had one in which my love was reciprocated. Her name was Shoshanna. After she made it clear that I was rejected and that that wasn't going to change, I decided that the most loving thing I could do for her was disappear, and never again do anything to remind her that I exist. That was 35 years ago. Through those decades, when I've lain alone in bed every night, I've thought of her and felt good that I wasn't making her unhappy by intruding into her life.
It was never in the cards that someone would love me. But, even though she doesn't know (and mustn't), every day I know that I'm doing the most loving thing I can towards her by letting any trace of memory she has of me grow ever dimmer. I made her unhappy and hopefully she could no longer remember me even with reminding. This is pathetic but it's what I hold on to. | |
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