The way I feel about you is the way I feel about most things (definitely). Nothing special, because multiplicity breeds normalcy. To crave a fulfillment is to give in, & what I mean by that is I constantly catfight with biology. / At the same time, I can’t fake apathy. I can’t fake the thrill of new and alive things the same way you can. I haven’t spent enough time doing this—catharsis as a mood rather than an action, when the blood brings back the bad no matter how hard I try to be creative, lovely, or master. / Focus, you say. Help me, as if there’s anything I could have touched thoroughly. I never envied myself until I stopped believing your realities. / Anger & its comrades, they’re meaningless here as I hunt for paths around cliché. Your eyes are like jumping bugs; I bet you’ve never heard that one. And I’m sick of writing to & about you because it won’t change anyone or anything but me.
==> In other words, I like you hormonally and I wish I didn’t because I can’t.
At the same time, the best I can do is thank you because I’ve tried my whole Christian life to learn about surrender. Being friends with you has yanked the control out from under me. Nothing else ever has so thoroughly.
But I really, really believe you deserve the best, so today I’m writing my declaration of independence. I’m free from you in theory and probably not in actuality until the battles are fought and done. Someday I’ll write my constitution and I wish I had the wherewithal to keep myself focused on then—for now, thank you for challenging my existence and I’ll see you very soon.
Isabella – 7/23/17,