Thursday, February 4, 2010

Wish You Were

I hate having the inclination to write, but nothing to say. I hate wanting to spill my over-flowing soul, but it's stuck upright. I hate having so much to say but no way to put it. I hate, I hate, I hate.

I find it interesting how I get so consumed with stress over the things left unfinished. I didn't do that assignment. Now I have it and this one, and this one, and this other one as well. And then I proceed to do none of them, though I can't fall asleep at night knowing the web I've woven.

I think it all goes back to my sad belief in fate. I believe things that are meant to work out, will work out, and things that wont just... Wont.

It's a hard thing to grasp sometimes, especially when you're so sure that fate was handing you a good hand.

"It seems to and then something happens and then it kinda crashes and burns. Well thatq one aRea . a lot of times though its awesome :)"

That's what he said to me. That piece of fate I was sure was gonna work out. And then it kind of... Oh, how'd he put it? Crashed and burned? Yes. That's it exactly.

And going back through those messages, trying to accurately quote him for you, I found myself growing more and more depressed, to the extent tears were forming in my eyes. I really did like him. I really was willing to give all I had for him. And I so wanted him to be that way back. And I was sure, blindly sure, he would.

So is it fate then, that we didn't turn out that way? Or am I some dumb little dreamer hoping to acknowledge the outer workings of some mystic force? Is this "fate" to which I cleave a mere figment of my imagination?

I guess... I guess all my life I've set up in my head the perfect person, and that boy just fit it so well I convinced myself that that was it. He was the one. And yes, he fit it, and filled it well, but he...

"Gone away/ are the golden days./ They're just a page/ in my diary./
So here I am/ a utopian citizen,/ I'm still convinced/ there's no such thing as idealism.../
Memories they're following me like a shadow now,/ and I'm dreamin'/ 'cuz I've already suffered the fever of disbelief.

But I've seen your act/ and I know all the facts;/
I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
It ain't hard to see/ who you are underneath;/
But I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
I wish you were here./

I was true/ as the sky is blue,/ but I couldn't soon/ say the same for you, no no./
So now I find/ denial in my eyes./ I'm mesmerized by the/ the picture that's in my mind./
Oh, so tell me when I'll finally see your shallow heart/ for what it is./
'Cuz I don't wanna keep believing in illusions. No, no, no.

'Cuz I've seen your act/ and I know all the facts;/
I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
It ain't hard to see/ who you are underneath;/
But I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
I wish you were here...

Sometimes/ I can't explain it/ and I'm so sorry that I can't
I'll try/ to concentrate/ on your true idenity.

'Cuz I've seen your act/ and I know all the facts;/
I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
It ain't hard to see/ who you are underneath;/
But I'm still in love with who I wish you were./

I've seen your act/ and I know all the facts;/
I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
And it ain't hard to see/ who you are underneath;/
But I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
I wish you were here./
I wish you were here./

I wish you were here."
-Wish You Were, Kate Voegele


So reading those text messages can hurt me, stinging as if I'd had him and lost him to the course of his life. But I know, I know, that this isn't the case.

Because through those messages and conversations he was the one. He really was.

But outside of my phone, and out in the light, who is he?

Not mine.

He's her's. And the part of me that isn't living in my phone, the part of me that doesn't cry over what he was, is okay. I'm content with the two of them. I really am. And he can say Hi to me and ask how I'm doing, that light in his eyes from back when he'd pretend sparkling for a moment, so the inner fibers of me believe his sincerity. And I can respond back accurately and peppily that "I'm great."

And he can ask again, as if he didn't hear me right.

But let me assure him, I'm great without him.

Because someday I'll find that someone I've daydreamed. Someday I'll find the one who is the one both in my phone and to my face. And Andrew? Andrew just wasn't him.

His loss.

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