(Cue the violins. I am so fucking melodramatic, I need to be kicked in the head, but good.)
I don’t know why I persist in holding onto impossible fantasies. I mean, yeah, just in general, I’m not one for letting go very easily. I am an inveterate packrat. I still have papers from high school. Some of the stuff I hang on to dates all the way back to 6th grade. So, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary (which, I keep thinking to myself, I may very well be misinterpreting, right? Right…) I insist on pretending.
If I am honest with myself, then there is no hope.
These days, no hope doesn’t seem so bad, though. The Art of Not Wanting. Everything falls apart in the end. All the things that has-beens and might-have-beens tell themselves so that they can sleep at night and not wake up hating themselves.
I don’t even know how to try.
I just have to be deadly serious this time. About the Art of Not Wanting. About taking things as they come, and rolling with it. Even in the interstitial moments when I think my heart is breaking, there is time and space to laugh, to take it all in, to enjoy the fact that I am alive, no matter how painful it seems at the time.
This is life. I suppose I can either take it or leave it, but thems is the breaks. Apparently, I’m the only one who can save me. And I’m having the damndest time doing it.