big nostalgic lump

This town is littered with poetic moments and good cases of the giggles and classic costumes and cinematic moments. How does anyone live somewhere their entire life? How do they escape what they cannot forget? Even as I coat my favorite places with new memories, I constantly refresh the creases and folds of the old ones. Summers like these make me introspective as I pass the year in review and acquire enough distance to judge and sort and case and file.

Every now and then I look worse in this light; of late more often than not. It seems my best isn't enough, and in spite of my best efforts, I still manage to drama monger. I don't intend to; I don't want to. I don't know how not to -- by offering support and succor and solace I seem to draw these problematics towards me. I don't have any regrets about my efforts to start always telling the truth, no matter how poorly it frames me. This is reading more like an LJ post than a blog entry -- I suppose old habits die hard. This is what happens when I have no internet first thing in the morning with my coffee.

I wish I had the courage to join you tonight; I don't want to feel like an outsider sneaking in on something that I am no longer a part of, something I perhaps imagined I was a part of. It felt so cozy there, something snuggly and safe [though it proved not to be] but now these sensations feel phantom and fleeting. This ghost life is a struggle day and night to define who I am. My harsh outlines, usually delineated in hard black ink, have been rewritten in smudgy charcoals and now I feel lost without a definition of myself or a plan for my future.

I wish that when you spoke to me your voice wasn't filled with so much glass; it's partly my fault that there are shards there, but it takes two. I want to talk, but I'm afraid of what you will say, where it will hurt me. I feel so fragile, barely functionally together, and I can't afford to fall apart again this month; there's too much left to do. I trusted you as that one person who wouldn't judge me for my sins, but apparently I've figured one out severe enough to upset you [and who would have thought it would be that?]. In fact, I'm not entirely sure how I have sinned against you; that makes it all the worse. I'm doing penance for crimes I didn't know I was committing, crimes of which I have no recollection.

You did know that by abandoning me [again] when he decided he wanted you back, I would have to seek support from someone, somewhere. If you're not happy with how I did that, maybe you shouldn't leave me that alone. For that, I do blame you. With some luck, and a bit of chance, one day soon I'll be able to tell you :
"It hurts everytime you leave me for him; especially since you keep coming back and back when he leaves you, I expect you every time. I miss you when you're gone and wish you were still here with me; I wish there were balance in this swinging, spinning disaster-cycle. One week or month or set of days I see you all the time; we make plans and do everything together. Then, all of a sudden, it's like that never existed; you're never home, I can't make coffee for you in the morning, and there's no one after work to sit and have tea with."