Strolling Dark Corridors
I don’t sleep much. Or well.
Y’know, at some point, my being an insomniac must have just become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I mean, seriously. Take right now, for instance. It’s almost 11:30 and I have to get up for work in seven hours. I could be sleeping (well, trying to sleep, anyway), but no, no. I’m here typing. Problem is, I’m really long overdue for this. There’s been so much going on with me and yet, it seems like nothing at all. My head is just so full now. There’s so many nameless things I realize I need to get straight with myself. A lot of them I don’t even know what they are. But there is this one big thing still there. The one thing I know of, and it’s sent me down a lot of dark alleyways.
The rumination on lives past began pretty much right after Will headed back to KC after being in town for a week around July 4th. I started writing again, which is something I hadn’t done in…well…I honestly don’t know how long. I just pulled out a small little spiral day planner looking thing, and started writing. In a matter of a week, I’d blown through about 25 pages, where I came to a screeching halt. I reached a point where I had to do more than just mentally dig into the past. No, I needed to physically do it so as to dredge up some of that old shit. So I came here and started reading old entries. There’s so much pain in a lot of them. It took me back to where I needed to get, except I think I ended up going past the point I needed. I went from inspiration for a tortured artist to a complete evaluation of past relationships. And I came to a realization.
No girl has ever thought of me the same way I’ve thought of them.
It’s never happened. From Katherine to Monica, and all stops in-between, it’s been the same story over and over again. Especially with the scant few I’ve really, really let myself feel for. Love, or something vaguely resembling it. None of them have felt the same way. I’ve never been to them what they’ve been to me. To cite, When I was (possibly) in love with Katherine, she couldn’t have cared less (and as an aside…WTF…this was ten years ago…who knew she helped fuck me up so good). I was drooling all over myself for her, and it was nothing much to her. And that started as soon as I let her know I felt anything for her. And Mo? Weeellllll….lemme tell you about that. I can’t believe I was always too fucking dense to realize this before, but I was just the easy answer for her. My persistence was too much to bear turning away. That’s what made it worth trying for her, just the simple fact that I didn’t give up, and eventually came back around to her again later. She was never sure about me. She flip-flopped. She wavered. She wondered. I was sure. I knew. The one thing that kept her settling back on me was that I didn’t give up. My persistence just must’ve made it seem like Someone was trying to tell her Something. What I percieve to be the only reason she did eventually date me was because she wanted to make sure her original rejection was the right choice. Not necessarily so much because she felt something strong. Just wanted to double check that decision. I’m sure I’m probably over-simplifying. In fact, I’d guarantee you that. But it’s what I’ve come to see as the truth. The Truth According to Dave, as it were.
And how is it that I’m the only one who ended up being fucked up in these two situations? I will swear on a stack of whatever you want me to that Katherine hasn’t the first clue she fucked me up. No idea. Because our time left no scar for her. She didn’t invest any serious feeling into it, she she came out clean on the other end. But me? Well, as you can see, some of that pain still sticks with me to this day. Monica, on the other hand, well…I really don’t know if the same is true for her or not. I don’t think there are really any wounds there for her, nothing too big anyway, but I know she now has some idea just how much she fucked me up. For me to be noticeably rattled in her presence two years later? Yeah, she knows now. Probably why she doesn’t communicate with me anymore. In fact, I’m sure it is. That night was the last time we exchanged any words. And it was because she could see my scars, that she left. I don’t blame her, mind you. I likely would’ve done the same, as much as I’d like to think I wouldn’t. I guess, perhaps, it just boggles my mind that she couldn’t have known (though I’m sure she suspected) she cut me deep. But that all goes back to her never thinking of me the same as I did her. I always tried not to let on, and for a while, I believed it. Until I saw her again, though. That’s what did it. I might as well have stuck my hand in a socket.
I guess the problem would be that people would become my world, and I was just another face in theirs. Something like that.
Someday I’ll get over all this shit (meaning this stuff and much more I haven’t even touched), and then I can find Dave’s Ark.
Now Playing in Dave’s Mental Jukebox: "Guarded" by Disturbed, "Futures" by Jimmy Eat World, and "Rain" by Breaking Benjamin
"…what matters is what hasn’t been…we’re wide awake and we’re thinkin’…."
p.s. "Jagged Little Pill Acoustic" is godlike.
Sayonara.