three in the morning productions

all the world

Just now I was thumbing through older entries that captured moments which made me smile again, laugh again. And I realized that between the holes of all that I committed to better-left-unsaid, you know what I miss the most? Being in love. I can now truly say that I have been in love. No, don't smile. Don't awww. Because it's not a happy story--it doesn't end with a twirling kiss at a train station and ever after on the corner. I can tell you this. It's a sad story, in fact, a very pathetic one. I want to forget, because-- I fell in love with something that wasn't real. Make believe for the skeptic who wanted it so badly after she realized that she could never have it--because--that's just the kind of person she is. You see, she fell in love through the internet (and no, I haven't actually gotten to the pathetic part just yet--that's how sad this story is). She wasn't looking for it, it was there, and when it found her, she didn't want it. But she convinced herself that she needed it. And it was real. Then.

She made it real. They'd talk to each other until early after mornings--about everything, told each other things and when it seemed like there was nothing left to tell, they'd go back and dig up the dust of their past and then pile up the secrets at their feet. They happied themselves with the intimacy they found in sharing each to the other. For her part, at least, she was happy. To have someone understand and "be there" for her--hundreds of miles away--but still, it was real. Then.

The story closes, like most others, with reality at a sweeping bow. They met. And then decided to be "just the best of friends" thereafter. Essentially, what this contract amounts to is their talking less and less and then finally not at all. But the skeptic was still hanging on to the hope that there had been something real. She didn't want to run off--she was used to that. What she wasn't used to, was hanging on. This time, she decided to go through the heap of her brokenness and salvage anything real she could find. Nothing ever came up. Because he refuses to look deeper at what really happened--he refuses to look at what made them fall away--he's afraid that if he looks too hard, he'll see himself.

And she. She's still cradling the memory of what had been between them (it was real--, then), and she doesn't want to hurt him--when hurting him could be the only thing that could help him. And she knows that he knows this, and he's hurting for it. But she's still hanging on, hanging around.

Every now and then, she'll look over to the heap of what had been--she'll see him moving on with his life, hurting, but moving. Because that's all he knows. She wants to help him, and the only way of doing that, without hurting him ~too much~ is too wait.

Who knows, maybe there will be an epilogue to this story. Maybe she'll leave him to help himself--maybe the story's not over yet. Then again, the world was always happier with the tragedies

06.04.03 - 9:41 p.m.

	all the world Just now I was thumbing through older entries that captured moments which made me smile again, laugh again. And I realized that between the holes of all that I committed to better-left-unsaid, you know what I miss the most? Being in love. I can now truly say that I have been in love. No, don't smile. Don't awww. Because it's not a happy story--it doesn't end with a twirling kiss at a train station and ever after on the corner. I can tell you this. It's a sad story, in fact, a very pathetic one. I want to forget, because-- I fell in love with something that wasn't real. Make believe for the skeptic who wanted it so badly after she realized that she could never have it--because--that's just the kind of person she is. You see, she fell in love through the internet (and no, I haven't actually gotten to the pathetic part just yet--that's how sad this story is). She wasn't looking for it, it was there, and when it found her, she didn't want it. But she convinced herself that she needed it. And it was real. Then. She made it real. They'd talk to each other until early after mornings--about everything, told each other things and when it seemed like there was nothing left to tell, they'd go back and dig up the dust of their past and then pile up the secrets at their feet. They happied themselves with the intimacy they found in sharing each to the other. For her part, at least, she was happy. To have someone understand and "be there" for her--hundreds of miles away--but still, it was real. Then. The story closes, like most others, with reality at a sweeping bow. They met. And then decided to be "just the best of friends" thereafter. Essentially, what this contract amounts to is their talking less and less and then finally not at all. But the skeptic was still hanging on to the hope that there had been something real. She didn't want to run off--she was used to that. What she wasn't used to, was hanging on. This time, she decided to go through the heap of her brokenness and salvage anything real she could find. Nothing ever came up. Because he refuses to look deeper at what really happened--he refuses to look at what made them fall away--he's afraid that if he looks too hard, he'll see himself. And she. She's still cradling the memory of what had been between them (it was real--, then), and she doesn't want to hurt him--when hurting him could be the only thing that could help him. And she knows that he knows this, and he's hurting for it. But she's still hanging on, hanging around. Every now and then, she'll look over to the heap of what had been--she'll see him moving on with his life, hurting, but moving. Because that's all he knows. She wants to help him, and the only way of doing that, without hurting him ~too much~ is too wait. Who knows, maybe there will be an epilogue to this story. Maybe she'll leave him to help himself--maybe the story's not over yet. Then again, the world was always happier with the tragedies 06.04.03 - 9:41 p.m.