Things we've lost

I save a lot. I try and hunt down missing memories and hope to give them all the power and beauty that they initially had. I'm writing down everything, every single thing no matter how damning it might be to me or her, and it's helping. Every day is a little bit easier. In The Birth of Tragedy Nietzsche wrote that we only have words for that is already dead in our hearts- and it is along those lines that I'm writing, writing, writing as much as possible to get all of this out of my head, out of my heart. Did she blame me for not getting into Harvard? I cannot say. I cannot say what the difference between her playing 23 games of freecell in a row, after getting the Harvard news and quitting her job, and my playing solitaire all day long through november because my voice died. I can't write cause and effect, I can't draw conclusions, and I cannot use this particular past as a guide to the future. But I can write what I knew happened. These things happened and they were beautiful and they meant something.

Every day I try and balance the part of me that winces with every familiarity and every ghost of remembered embraces, and its constant screaming for vengeance- and the desire to honor what happened, how I behaved and how she loved, with all due diligence. Making every effort to enshrine this heart as an artifact of what had happened, however briefly.

We are foolish people and our past mocks us.

idanceliketaffy: you are you beautiful.
idanceliketaffy: i cannot imagine you not being by my side.
idanceliketaffy: i adore you.

***update***

idanceliketaffy: it isn't just lip service.
idanceliketaffy: it isn't just to placate someone else.
idanceliketaffy: or say something because that is what you're supposed to say.

It's been a month. Healing is a sucker's game.