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Monday, Nov. 08, 2004 / 7:01 p.m. ~Wondering~ I'm wondering at what point one stops saying, "That's just the way I am, and I've always been like that", and begins to change. I'm wondering how many "I'm sorry"s it takes to be forgiven. And I'm wondering how long it takes to change, and how long it takes to forget, and if it is possible to forget, and if it is possible to forgive, and be forgiven. I start to feel I've done all I can do, I say it aloud, "I've done all I can do, all I know how to do, I can do no more, that's it", and then the gnawing starts. Is there more? Is there another tack? There must be something else, another way to reach out, another way to say it was all wrong and it never should have happened, and if I could go back in time and change the past I would. If I could see the smile in your eyes now, instead of imagining the hatred I can only long to hear in your voice. Anything, I want to hear anything, I want you to shout at me, to insult me, to pause so long on the phone I wonder if you're still there. And I want to see you, I want to sit next to you, close enough to smell you, and wonder at the deep well inside you, and guess what you're feeling, and wait, wait, find patience enough to wait for the answers. I want a spontaneous surge of affection to erupt between us then, and feel all the ice melt away from us, feel the heat we both felt before. I took something precious and destroyed it with my own doubts and insecurities. And still I wonder if I was right. The loud silence echoing now, reverberating for days inside my head, the noise I can't stop from making me feel I'm going to lose my mind is an indicator of something more than just a few doubts. If you're gone, truly gone, there could have been nothing there to pretend to see. I hate that I want it back. I hate that I'm trying so hard, in vain, and I hate that I can't move forward like others do, and that I can't be inside my own body when I'm out and about, but I'm watching from beside myself. And I hear me talking to people, and I think, How can she not know, can she see, does she sense it, can she see the part of me that's now standing next to me? I look over at the chair in the corner, and I can see him sitting there, quietly, watching me, listening to me read from this monitor. And I can see him lying on the floor as I massaged his back with that wooden roller, and then I lay on top of him, on his back, and as he'd twitch and start his heavy breathing, I'd wake him, "You asleep?!?!", "Mmmmm", he'd reply. I look at the faux Oriental now, bright red, and I see him there, like a ghost of him here, with me. And I remember after he left, the last time I saw him, how empty I felt, how alone, how quiet it was here, how the cats wandered room to room, as if expecting to find him here still. And I told him, casually, secretively, It felt so empty after you left. Maybe I knew I'd never see him again. Maybe inside I stepped to the side and maybe I looked back at me and said, "He's gone, now, he's gone". I wonder at what point I stop saying, "I'm an Aries, this is who I am, this is just the way I am", and I begin to change, to alter my behavior. I wonder at what point he finds a way to forgive me for what I've done, and he decides he can talk to me, and I can hear the hatred there, in his voice, fading away, and at what point I can sit beside him, and reach for his hand, and hold it near to my heart, and kiss him long and deep, and let him know that I never meant for this to happen, and if I could go back in time I'd take it all back, and he'd be here, or I'd be there, but we'd be together, again. Cost of the War in Iraq
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