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Category: Writing and Poetry
It's been thirteen years since we parted. I always knew I loved you better than the rest, but after it ended, I had no inclination to relive the past. Still, I see you often, talk about you with friends, but I despair in the thought that I'll never know you as intimately as I once did. People will never see us together, how glorious and young and full of hope we both were. Even in your advanced years, you were always young. And me—well, now I'm old and not as forgetful as I wish. Forgetful is the best way to survive, as memories become too heavy to carry without the help of those that share them.
Thirteen years—nearly half my life, give or take. I remember the times we flirted briefly, made plans to be together, only to find something new to distract us, me with my dreams and words, and you with younger, more ambitious replacements. How they tried to win your favor, far more than I ever would. Perhaps, our parting need not weigh so heavy on my mind. Perhaps, love and life have reminded me continuously that facticity is not to be questioned, only accepted. As a large part of my life, you can be no more.
My friends speak of you, mention how well you're doing, how powerful, charming, perfectly beautiful. They speak of the hours of enjoyment you give them, in detailed stories about aspects of your personality that I knew more intimately than they ever will. I knew you. I lived you. It's always hard noticeably losing life.
Sometimes, I hear people disparage you and feel the need to fight passionately in your defense. But, you've given me no reason, no need. You've proven that you don't need me to support you in any way. You never did. You never gave me anything for which I didn't have to work; all I ever really did was love you and cheerfully took the joy you provided with reverence and gratitude. I loved how we looked together, and everything you gave me. Everyone loved to watch us together, and my family loved you above all others. There was no death when I was in you, for anyone anywhere. But, when it became too much work to be with you, I walked away and turned you into a memory.
I walked into "adulthood" without you, diminished, shaken, not myself. Sex with easy women, hard women, beautiful women—'im perfect surrogates for you. I convinced myself a few times I was capable of loving the best ones as much as I did you, but lied more to myself than I ever could to them. While I'm truer than anyone I've ever met, no one lies better. Maybe they never knew they were nothing more than accessories to my own vanity and feelings of emptiness. But, I think they did. I wanted to be with them no more than thirty percent of the time; I wanted to be with you every waking moment. Oh, how I tried to make love without you, but failed miserably each time. Maybe, I'm not as good at lying as I thought.
Now I have trouble around you. When I see you, I want to be with you, feeling the joy, the excitement, the tension. Watching you from afar is worse than not seeing you at all. I remember the years I avoided you, and I learned a lot about life. When I realized that life was harder without you in it, even in the smallest, most pathetic capacity, I decided to let you back in. It was far from the same, but it felt sweetly nostalgic and comfortable. When you did well, I took joy, though not the same as when we were together. The pain of being nothing more than a casual observer was too hard to shake. But, where once I was too weak to be with you, too weak to be without you, I must reject you now. I must reject you. I must reject your lies, your promises, your usurpation of my attention, your indifference to my existence. If I can.
There is so much more I need to say to you, but I've wasted far too much life on you when there's so much more out there. You can never understand; no one I share words with can either, or cares not to. No matter. Just because I've met no one with an imagination large enough to see beyond, I can always take solace in the poem a friend gave me before he died:
Going Out
I need to go out—
Not out then into, but out.
Feel the elements—
Stars and infinity, too.
No ceiling will do—
Just ground to air to space, out.
I will go out. I will take my love to a place it's never been, my strength, my socially obsolete masculinity, my antiquated (classical) taste. I will take everything and go out, in a way that only prophetic poets and poetic prophets understand. I will go out and leave you behind, throw away the memories, belittle those that praise or disparage you and your ideals, remember who I was before I lost you, dismiss those afraid of the rain, blind to the sky, condescend to all competitors. I will go out and revisit the self I was—singular, focused, virile, participating, not an emasculated spectator. And, you will be nowhere to be found in my new life, heart, or mind when I finally decide to come back in.
You've haunted my dreams for thirteen years, long enough. I still reach out for you only to realize anew that you're not there; and on the occasions that you are, it never really means anything to either of us, but somehow I still come out damaged. I'm just tired of the superfluous games. But, my heart, not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of you and the joy you gave me all those years ago. You were my greatest and purest love, baseball, but I'll neither play nor miss you again.
3:11 AM
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