It's Not a Matter of

“I always knew you’d disappoint me,” he said to me with a perpetual wince on his face. Yes, disappointment sets me free as much as pain gives you the right to be unkind. All that’s certain to me now is that I am free, I am one, I am no longer we, I am I. I reckon once I considered you a viable option, a potential possibility but... and right there my thoughts stopped, they froze at the sound of your voice calling me to display a vigorous array of drama from the top of your lungs, and you say that it’s my fault, that it’s also your fault that you’ve fallen for me and the other way about in some way or another, or that at least that’s what I made you feel, that i’m full of pretences, that I’m a fool to pretend, but there was no real means of doing it, falling for each other I mean, because our connection was imaginary, invented, functionally calculated. But then again I thought we could have been something really awesome. And i’ve brought you down, I know, I calculated the way to functionally des-invent and des-imagine you. It served me well, I must confess... it taught me not to think of you as a you, but as something less than you; it dawned on me the invention collides with reality: we-are-separate.

Miss Me

I honestly miss me sometimes. I go around imagining how the old me would be these days and if there would have been chances for him to survive. I also explain to myself that I sometimes want some things as much as I used to, that I still fear horror films inhumanly terribly when I’m on my own, that I have the same abiding passions for some people, some places and some sounds. That those things I used to want, those fears that still possess me and those passions that never die probably mean I’m still the same at heart.
At other times I don’t miss me so much. I find the old me dull and gloomy and abnormally puerile and so very broken for no apparent reason or for functional convenience. Now I wonder if being unable to feel can be equated to strength.