It is with great humility and annoyance that I admit the terrible truth. In my attempts to avoid the proverbial conventions of sentimentality, I accidentally constructed a trap in which I have, with much less grace than I would have hoped, completely toppled over. What a fool I was to think I would be exceptional.
If you could have only seen me: smoking in the bathtub and crying like all the fools I once patronized. But here I am, no better than the rest and certainly no more content. However, no less content either. My constitution is so heavy I feel as though I would certainly lapse were it not for the fortress of friends.
It’s difficult. I have no intention of understating this. Yet, I find myself peculiarly content. It is a confusing condition of perfect clarity. I understand that I am not the one and that it is not my fault. Oddly enough the finality of it all is comforting. I am the only in love and it is excruciating to know that I am second.
I will continue to hurt for as long as it takes. And in the meantime, there is nothing to do but simply hurt. I will not mask it, will not fight it, and will not let it inhibit me. I will pick up the pieces as they start to appear. I am grateful for the pain because it means I am alive and because I am learning from it. I cannot help how I feel now, but one day I will forget you. I washed you off today in the shower, and soon there won't be any trace left. I know that I will always keep you with me. But it will be different because I am different. It's a self-preservation thing.
