Fascinating. Intriguing. Mysterious.
Just a few of the things I have been called by people who read me or speak with me privately. Of course I am flattered because they took the time to say it; compliments dressed in reality in a virtual world.
My life is pretty simple and I like it like that. The only effort put forth is to be as real and as honest as I possibly can. This is why rejection hurts so much; there is nothing else on which to blame a departure when I am not hiding behind pretense.
The last rejection nearly killed me. I used to joke about dying inside, but now I’m actually standing over my own grave. She was special, an unknowing muse responsible for all of my smiles in nearly a decade. Concentrated, saturated emotion soaked up from the cracks of a dying heart. Frankly I was surprised to even hear her voice once, to see her, to exist in her world. I have said on a couple of occasions girls like her don’t talk with boys like me. That used to be all about confidence and self-esteem, but now it’s more about time and water flowing under bridges.
Time has always been my problem, be it in years apart or stations in life or duration of time spent together. Out loud, the conversation sounds like a pity party, but on paper it makes a little more sense.
Or a little less sense because how can this much…nothing happen to one person?
The look on the bright side crowd will tell me I had this small collection of really good moments, but my interest is thus far in volume. When I am able to more consistently collect good moments, perhaps then I will believe a little bit in fate and her plan.
Right now I visit my own grave each morning and go about my day so when night comes I can sleep and spend a little time dreaming anew before the daily mourning for dreams I once had.