"If you say no, than no it will be."

Note: I believe I mentioned on my side bar that this blog shares both lemons and lemonade.

I apologize. Prepare for word vomit. Brace yourself for some mental venting. Get ready for some lemons. No one is perfect.

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Manchester Orchestra wrote in, in my opinion, one of their best songs,

"...I lost your presence underneath the bridge.
Lock the door, let's talk it out,
Against the wall, hands on my mouth,
Could this be it, is it really over now?

...Nine to eleven you're getting weak,
The tile is cold, I can barely speak,
And I think she's gone, but I'll be sure for safety's keeping
If you say no, then no it will be,
I'll stick it at our skin, pierced with colly strings,
Just play it cool yeah, and try avoid being seen
I'll stick it at our skin, pierced for nothing." 

Many people can pinpoint the moment they fell in love. I know I can. It was the day you drove all night to come see me. You were resting your head on my lap, I was scratching your back. You were so exhausted, and I was so enamored. All I wanted to do was take care of you, forever and ever. Cliche? Most definitely. True? Yes. That I was sure of. I felt what you felt, and though miles apart, I thought we were one. 

How many people can remember the exact point their love ceased to be? That moment when you realize that though you were once someone's priority, you are now nothing more than a waste of time, shoved to the back of their mind.
Now, I think I can.

It seems like since July 8th, 2011, I hear over and over again to not let our fears govern our choices. It is incomprehensible to me how to follow such counsel. Fears are real. They are crippling. Because of me, they ruined us.
I'm sorry I got scared. I'm sorry I wasn't ready. I'm sorry about conditions that I have little control over, that control me. You deserved better. I knew that. I thought I was doing you a favor.

This is it, as it has felt it would be many times before. I'm not ready, I'm not ready. Please! If you love me, you won't make me do this. You know I'll never be ready. This is not a surprise, and it's my fault. I know. I had a choice. Slow like cancer or fast like a bullet, how do you want it to end? Doesn't matter, you can keep shooting, I'll take as many hits as is mortally allowed, I guess.

Something has died. 

In me. 

In you.

But it didn't feel like anything was wrong, as long as you were holding me. Holding all the fragile, impulsive, broken pieces together, of what was once a secure and stable person. I wish you knew me when I was her. I was really something. Sometimes I think about her, and it's like she's a stranger. Some charismatic character I've only read about. I envy that girl. Sometimes I feel like She's not too far, just temporarily taking a scenic detour, but anyone who knows me, knows I have no sense of direction. Babe, you know how I hate getting lost.

I'm scared. Oh so scared. 

So much time, gone.

 "It took so long just to feel alright. Remember how to put back the light in my eyes."

Everything becomes intensified when someone turns off the lights. The normal creaks and squeaks of your childhood home becomes monsters and intruders lurking in the night to smother you into it's midst.

I hate the darkness. I hate cold nights on the bathroom floor. I hate running the bathwater so no one can hear me. I hate the violence that acts as sensory output to distract me from the pain in my chest. I hate the way I react, leaving me wonder who is this monster in my body? This isn't me... I hate the sinking feeling, the lump in my throat, I hate the rejection. Begging for answers that may never come, analyzing circumstances that may never make sense. Angel, just make it ok.
I want Monte Christo Tuesdays, and listening to Jeff Pianki. I want Horkley's movie rentals every Friday night, and over-priced cheese fondu on Valentine's day. I want to dig for sand crabs on Laguna Beach. I want green eyed, meek-natured babies. I want you singing "The boy who blocked his own shot."

"And honestly, I have been begging for answers
That you and only you can give to me
My voice crying loud
I've been crying for days now
And as I start to run, I stop to breathe...
And I'll be here by the ocean
Just waiting for proof that there's sunsets and silhouette dreams
All my sand castles fall like the ashes of cigarettes
And every waves drags me to sea
I could stand here for hours
Just to ask God the question, "Is everyone here make-believe?"
With a tear in His voice, He said, "Son, that's the question.
Does this deafening silence mean nothing to no one but me?"

You saved me. I know I say it all the time, but it's true. So long I've been attached to you, curled up in your warmth, your heartbeat being the lullaby that granted me sleep. Cut the umbilical chord, and I will starve. Starving builds character.

 It's been seven months. You'd think I wouldn't still cry over it seven months later, but I do. Not even cry though. I weep. I feel quite pathetic really. I'm quite good at remembering the feeling, fresh as day. Don't you understand though? I'm mourning. Not the loss of a loved one per say... but really, if you think about it, I am. Mourning a lost future, unfulfilled and high expectations, a mental future built, and crumbled. It's not easy to start from scratch. Often times I notice myself living in two separate realms of reality. I live a double life. Next week is our one year anniversary. Happy Anniversary Sweetheart. Read that calendar I gave you, I believe this time last year, we were going to go to the hot springs.

You were never meant to be a memory.

You will be fine, I know. Someone with such an incredible capacity to feel, love, empathize, also has made it clear you have an ability to shut off completely. Forget. Move on.

Who doesn't love to hear they are totally forgettable?

I get it. 

And yet I don't. I don't understand how someone once loved could be so easily disposable.
Move on, be happy, it's truly what I want for you, but stop trying to say goodbye. Stop blocking me out and pushing me away.
Date. I am. The thing is, many people just seem to pale in comparison. Dating has lost a lot of it's appeal.
I. will. be. a. cat lady. (hamster lady actually... I hate cats.)

"If it makes you less sad, I will die by your hand
Hope you find out what you are; already know what I am
And if it makes you less sad, we'll start talking again
You can tell me how vile I already know that I am
I'll grow old, start acting my age
It'll be a brand new day in a life that you hate
A crown of gold, a heart that's harder than stone
And it hurts to hold on, but it's missed when it's gone...
If it makes you less sad, I'll move out of this state
You can keep to yourself, I'll keep out of your way
And if it makes you less sad, I'll take your pictures all down
Every picture you paint, I will paint myself out"

You are my best friend. My much, much, much better half. This isn't third grade, we can still be friends. I'm still here. I will be for a while. My fears haven't changed, but they are not invoked by you either. So it'll be interesting to see how far you go, and how stagnant I remain.

My roommates think I'm a little certifiable, but we already knew that. They bought me flowers, and chocolate. Aren't they sweet? (and a little too thoughtful) haha  I remember receiving flowers the day after our engagement ended. They threw me into a whirlwind of tears because you were the only one who bought me flowers.
They were from my daddy.
Attached was this note:

"There are Brighter Days Ahead."
So here's to brighter days.

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