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.