Monday, March 7, 2016

What I wouldn't tell you

This is what I wouldn’t tell you: I hadn’t been replying to your messages, deliberately missing your calls, ditching your invitations to go out for coffee or yogurt--not because I was preoccupied with yoga, or work, or exercise, or whatever shitty excuse I could come up with. I simply didn’t want to. I had had enough of knowing everything about your life, and you knowing very little of mine. I was enough of being your soundboard, of everyone’s soundboard, really—and I guess you were the representation of that, just because you talked louder than everyone else, said a lot more about your life to me than everyone else did.

I guess I had the obvious revelation: everyone’s so self-absorbed. Talking about their plans and how great they’ve done, or how they’ve fucked up, or what they want to do. Everyone is so loud, saying what they will on social media, even if the issue really is of little concern to them. I mean, when was the last time anyone really cared about gay rights and meant it? Before shit hit the fan, when did anyone have an opinion they actually believed in, and not just because it was the trending topic?  

But you had known all the time, hadn’t you? You had known that I was somehow getting fed up; what you didn’t know was why, exactly. What you had done, and what was the turning point when I decided I was out.

Maybe I’m selfish as well, except that I am keenly aware of it? I have to admit. Those random nights (the number of which I could still count in one hand, and I deserve credit for that) was not so much to make new friends, but to allow them to form an opinion of me—how it is to be admired, to be liked, to be singled out of the crowd. I allow myself that, before I retreat to my room in the office, where hours of working until the late night stretch out before me. 

And this is where I drop that line: it’s not just you. It’s me. There are days when I am perfectly happy and content and ready, pleased even, to grind to work on my dreams. But there are days, such as this one, when I can’t help but ask myself: what are all these for, really? What are my dreams? What do I really want anyway? Who am I? I start thinking that I’m fine, the wounds have healed. And then I’ll revert to my old self and fuck up again, and not let anyone know. Because how do I even start? I was never the dramatic, revelatory type, and I’m not going to start now. I have managed all on my own. And I’m doing fine, really—I said to myself, and the thought becomes reality.

But the good part is that you will never know why, and you will never ask, because we don’t talk about these things. And I will just simply parachute myself at the forefront of your life, just exactly where I used to be a few weeks, months ago. And then we will talk again like nothing happened, like we were the best friends that we had been a few months ago.

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