it's time to go
and you're in the way
You are in the way of me doing the things that I want to do. You. You are not even here. It has been a year and a half since I heard your voice and even longer since I saw your face, but somehow you seem to get in the way of everything. You are the phantom limb, but not as catchy. Aching where you aren't. The absence which is much more pronounced than your presence ever was. I was reading this book today, The God Of Small Things. In it a nine year old child is killed. There is a section where the speaker discusses how the grieving for this girl lasted so much longer than she had even been alive. I feel like that sometimes. I feel like that. It seems ridiculous to be continually affected by something that was over in less time than you are upset about it. I don't get that. But there it is. You show up in the strangest places at the most inconvenient times and I would appreciate it if you would stop. I hope you like the service. It is just the way I thought you'd do it.
And you. You are in the way. As long as I have you I will not look for something else. Which is fine, man, that's cool. Cause that always ends bad. Historically. As long as I know that you have arms and eyes and that mouth, oh man, and as long as you keep covering me then I do not know why I would seek them elsewhere. And I won't. And, yeah, that's cool. For now. But when I do not have you anymore? It has been a year and a half. Soon, sooner than I realize, it will be ten. Forever? I wonder if I will be so happy then. If I will be as happy to see you as I am now, or if I will wonder why I am on the lookout at forty instead of thirty. Because I do not know how that works. I do not know if I, as a displaced half couple, am supposed to be always vigilant. Or if I stick with what I know, no matter how it rips me up in the end. In my way.
And me. I am in my way. I know what I need to do. I need to get the fuck out of that job and do something, something, else. Something that only I can do. Something that I am not completely wasted at. But I keep getting in my way, because I do not want to be that person, that parent, that idiot. I cannot justify leaving what I know to strike off into what, I don't know. Because I have children. Because I am responsible. But it is the oxygen mask again. I cannot take care of them if I do not take care of myself. And I am not taking care of myself. In fact I might be my own worst enemy.
You are in the way of me doing the things that I want to do. You. You are not even here. It has been a year and a half since I heard your voice and even longer since I saw your face, but somehow you seem to get in the way of everything. You are the phantom limb, but not as catchy. Aching where you aren't. The absence which is much more pronounced than your presence ever was. I was reading this book today, The God Of Small Things. In it a nine year old child is killed. There is a section where the speaker discusses how the grieving for this girl lasted so much longer than she had even been alive. I feel like that sometimes. I feel like that. It seems ridiculous to be continually affected by something that was over in less time than you are upset about it. I don't get that. But there it is. You show up in the strangest places at the most inconvenient times and I would appreciate it if you would stop. I hope you like the service. It is just the way I thought you'd do it.
And you. You are in the way. As long as I have you I will not look for something else. Which is fine, man, that's cool. Cause that always ends bad. Historically. As long as I know that you have arms and eyes and that mouth, oh man, and as long as you keep covering me then I do not know why I would seek them elsewhere. And I won't. And, yeah, that's cool. For now. But when I do not have you anymore? It has been a year and a half. Soon, sooner than I realize, it will be ten. Forever? I wonder if I will be so happy then. If I will be as happy to see you as I am now, or if I will wonder why I am on the lookout at forty instead of thirty. Because I do not know how that works. I do not know if I, as a displaced half couple, am supposed to be always vigilant. Or if I stick with what I know, no matter how it rips me up in the end. In my way.
And me. I am in my way. I know what I need to do. I need to get the fuck out of that job and do something, something, else. Something that only I can do. Something that I am not completely wasted at. But I keep getting in my way, because I do not want to be that person, that parent, that idiot. I cannot justify leaving what I know to strike off into what, I don't know. Because I have children. Because I am responsible. But it is the oxygen mask again. I cannot take care of them if I do not take care of myself. And I am not taking care of myself. In fact I might be my own worst enemy.
posted by machine central at 7:16 PM
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