Back pain. Neck pain. Like a lot. I think my pillows and mattress need a change or a flip. A bit of a headache that’s mostly gone away. A sense of lunacy in the air. It’s about time to go take a hot bath and fight against this madness.
What I want to write about is less than fruitful. As I can’t write about the story at the moment, there’s just froth and mash as far as progress, and the impulse to just scream about Donald Trump is an utterly misguided one…though, I’m enjoying (“enjoying”) reading the universal reaction of revulsion. What appears at the outset to be some sort of tipping point.
What I want to write about is just this keen feeling in the back of my mind, this desire to do something completely unnecessary. I want to ping, ahem, the RP’er. The RP’er with whom things have not progressed as of a month tomorrow, from whom I have been most likely saved an ocean of further, greater, and grander heartache, about whom I have zero thoughts save selfish ones.
I want to linger on the perfection of that situation. I want to not have to mourn it. I want to be somehow, with the power of irony that sometimes is invoked when I draw lines in the sand, when I make big statements here, to be proven wrong.
But worse than that, worse than simply desiring to be surprised by a an email in an imaginary inbox, I want to throw rocks at imaginary windows. I want to chase. I want to inquire after. I want to cause trouble for myself. I don’t know the reason for his utter, full-blown disappearance after such…episodic camaraderie…but it was utter and it was full-blown.
Save for an odd little squiggle. The sort of send-off wherein you are quite sure that the problem is nothing to do with you, but something on the other end of the line. Something that could, presumably, be corrected in the fullness of time. It is by necessity vague because I have no idea what this fellow human endures at this moment in time, but if it is a crircumstance to guess at, I could also guess it away.
And this encourages me to send another letter. When I know with every sensibility in my brain and body that I will be left twisting in the wind. I will be ignored further, or rebuffed, or given some tragic tale about how we must ever be parted. I’d be asking for a mess rather than remaining at this elegant divide where I can stand, stately and dignified. A land of spades being called spades.
And yet. Oh, and yet. How I would love for everything to just pick up right as it was, and play just as it went and the character to not be stymied and for a bit of attention to be lavished on me again. It is selfish, utterly, and vain, and useless in a world where I need to be working towards par. But that was nice, alright, it was nice and I am tired of my pinball memory hitting the points before shooting the moon over and over again.
Just putting it out there, universe, just letting you percolate on the matter.