walka walka walk- letters that never get sent.

I'm past the point of feeling pathetic. Of course I don't want a declaration of your love; I don't even want a response. I'm doing it for me this time I guess. For my sake. To clear my mind of what could be lurking in yours, and that sort of thing. So here goes:
Did you know that you're always in control? As a Libra, you are accredited for weighing the options (hence the scale), and making decision based on fact. You control many aspects of my life in that way, single-handedly. You decide that we're really over, you decide that we can't speak. You decide when you're ready to see me again and hope to (god?) you're really ready. You decide when you can speak to me and what you can say, and you decide when it's time to cut it off. What's frustrating is that I just go with it. An emotional wreck of a Cancer. I wish I were more like you in that way- able to think before I do, to weigh out options. I'd be better off, I think. I wouldn't have had you over, I wasn't ready. I wouldn't draw our tiny communications out 'till we're dangling from thin awkward threads. I would never have played that goddamned faulty traffic light of a CD you gave me- ONCE, let alone many nights before I went to sleep. Weakness. Being in love. Both. Whatever.
The thing is, I can't blame you for leaving, but I do blame you for coming back. For what? For your those speakers you GAVE you me what seems like years ago? I don't think it was the speakers you came for. Did you want to know if the rumors were true? To cure your curiosity of what I sounded like or if I smelled different, if I turned out all right, or on the opposite end of the spectrum, the miserable bloodydeadteenagealcoholrelatedcarcrashintodynamitefreightcaronthehighway mess you last saw me as. Well I hope it was satisfying. I hope your curiosity is cured. I knew that's what you were doing the minute I saw the number I'd been trying to forget on my phone for the first time. But of course the Cancer tendencies overruled what little reason I do have. After all, I was curious, too.
I am doing okay. At first I wasn't. Not at all, and it wasn't just a day or a week or a month or two months of not being okay, either. The kind of not-okay that makes your arms numb in this strange way, like they've been weighed down with such a huge gravitational pull that you forgot you'd ever had arms in the first place. The kind of not-okay that makes any place in the world, with anyone in the world-no matter how beautiful, or how much joy it would have given you prior-to- feel the same as anything else. Sleeping feels like working, working feels like talking, talking feels like listening, listening feels like nothing, nothing feels like television, television feels empty and that's all there is to it. It was the kind of not-okay where eating wasn't a necessity, but when it was, when it absolutely was, any food would do because the gigantic lump near the esophogus somehow interfered with taste. And I'm not speaking metaphorically. Not okay enough to fix your hair in the morning, or put on your lipgloss or tight jeans because you don't have anyone to impress. Not okay enough to lose interest in sex. Not okay enough to try to fit in, to feel out of place. To let people in. To not feel ashamed, even when you know everyone knows. To make new friends. To skip class. To write on the bathroom stalls everything you were promised until it felt better so you could sigh and leave and come back the next day to find it gone. (Thank god(?) for Smitty, right?) I am doing okay. Now I am. I can't put a finger on when, but it all did eventually stop. And gradually. For the most part, that is. That being said, the hindsight doesn't stretch too far. But from what I can see, I am happy with how I turned out, so I can never be bitter about the past. When I was looking for your forgiveness I found myself, and I think I subconciously thank you for that every day. I'm still the same me, but a me with a past. And it really does make all the difference. Although I hope it's a one-time kind of deal. Learn-and-go. You know.
On the third night in a row of listening to your "message", I felt the need to talk to you. To tell you all of this. To tell you I was sincere in the past and not just suffering from post-breakup syndrome, to tell you that I really miss you, and that I hope you are happy, wherever you are, whoever you're with and whatever you're doing. Also to tell you that I still love you, irrevocably by this point obviously, but in a lot of different ways, too. Also I would have told you my secret wishes to be friends, for the sake of conversation if anything; you are the smartest person I know. But this is planet Earth and I live here, so sometime I should start abiding by its tactless rules. I can't be friends with you. You gave me false hope- of what? That we could find a time machine or scrounge up the money to buy one from e-bay and then move back to our summer and forget about any of this? Or maybe that the past (almost) year of this didn't matter, and that you were willing to forget your current life to start a new one, with me. Yeah, right. I put the cd back into its case and moved it into storage. Maybe I'm too dense to understand the message; or maybe I'm right on the dot:
Rose meets Jack on the Titanic. By the end of the third night of their romance, Jack is floating to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Spoiler alert, but Cecilia and Robbie are never reunited. Months, if not sooner, before the war is over, Robbie lies in a tunnel with his insides eating him out, and Cecilia suffers a likewise fate.
Rose was only seventeen, but she is in love, and she wants to die with Jack. He wouldn't let her. She grows up eventually, falls in love with somebody else, and lives her life. Happily. Eighty-some years later, she dies, and her heart goes to the one that loved her best. She's seventeen again, despite all that's happened in her long life. Her Heaven is the Titanic, with Jack.
At least Briony gets to learn from the sob story she turned her sister into. She dedicates her entire life to writing one story, Cecilia and Robbie's story, and then she gets dementia and dies. Not everything could be like the Notebook, you know. When the girl can realize her mistake in the midst of making it, and when the guy is strong enough to take her back. You can't see shit till you're looking up at the water. You can't see shit till your fever has no chance of going back down. You can't see shit till you're wating for death in a tunnel. I'm sorry. But why'd you come back?