Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because—
because—I don’t know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you’ll have gone so far
I’ll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
—Pablo Neruda, Don’t Go Far Off
Whip me, beat me up, scream in my ear, and spit on my face. Yes, it is way too early to be talking about sentimental stuff again.
“Shit man, it’s four in the morning!” you might be saying right now. I’m sorry, I can’t help it. Well, existentially, I can. However, I will refuse to do so for now. I just miss her, that’s all. She sent me this message last year:
honey gudmrnn! na0pn ko n eys ko pr0 dpa ko bmabng0n ngkukwn2hn pa kmi.ü haaay puyat..i hpe u slept wel.i wnt 2 tok 2u na,mis na kta agad e..ü mwaah! iloveu!*
That is, to my memory, probably the last time she texted me that she loved me. That was probably the last time I had some verbal manifestation that I was cared for.
I don’t know why or how it came about but I miss her. Every little bit of me misses her. I find myself almost at the brink of tears when I think about it; when I think of how happy I could have been had things turned out differently. I think about all the lost opportunities, the words I should have told her, the care I should have shown. I think about how I should be the one holding her hand right now, how my life might probably be so much more bearable if she were still in it.
Why do I have to go through this now, you may ask. Its been over six months since I’ve seen her, since I’ve felt her skin against mine, ran my fingers through her hair or put my arm around her waist. But as odd as it may sound, she was the only one who fit. She was the only one I truly, absolutely felt so comfortable around. I didn’t need to fool around or act like a different person.
I only needed to be myself. And for a minuscule moment in history I was loved.
I know this is a futile attempt at self-pity or, God forbid, a call for pity from her. Now that is low. That is lower than low, its absolutely degrading. But given half a chance would I do it? I wish I could say with certainty that I wouldn’t, that I’d stand upright as a proud and dignified man, turn around, and walk away, never to look back. I wish I could have the guts to say that I don’t care for her any longer, that I no longer think about her. Alas, I am not that strong. I wouldn’t want to admit it out loud right now but I’d bow down to her the instant she asked me to.
Yes, I love her still.
You see, there are only a few things I truly, absolutely believe in. These are the absolute truths that I know I will hold on to no matter what, whether I’m on a witness stand or staring death straight in the face. One of these is that we only have one great love per lifetime. Two, if we’re lucky. Any more than that and you’ve wasted your chance.
Maybe I’m still clinging to an ideal that was long past and erased from both memory and fact. Maybe I’m desperate to be wanted again. I don’t know really. I guess I haven’t given things much time to sink in. I’ve tried to keep myself busy and avoid the introspection that normally comes with being single. I mean, being single doesn’t necessarily mean everything’s good and you can just bounce around everywhere and with anyone. What a lot of people don’t realize is that there’s still a certain degree of responsibility with being a bachelor/bachelorette. There are some toes you’re just forbidden to step on.
I have to ask, then, why do we love? Why do we go through this agonizing process of trial and error, the latter occurring more often than not. Or is it because of our lack of understanding of the nature of love itself that makes us commit mistakes? Furthermore, is it really a mistake?
After over two decades on this earth I’ve begun to realize that the only failures we make are the ones we don’t learn from. Those are the fatal errors in judgment that are bound to repeat themselves because of our stubborn reliance on old doctrines, protocols and norms. These, like stale judicial decisions must be overturned and set aside.
I’ve just realized this and whil I’m not too terribly superstitious by nature and try to approach things logically and reasonably. However, I’ve begun to think there’s a “curse” on me or something: I seem to be unlucky when it comes to Katrinas. I know it’s a strange though but consider this:
- Katrina C. —“Trina” and me were together for a few months before it all fizzled out because neither of us had much time for each other.
- Katrina D. —“Kat” was confused from the outset with what she wanted to concentrate on. It was a toss-up between school, pep squad, other friends, and me. I guess I just wasn’t that high up her list of priorities.
- Katrina G. —The ending to “Kitkat’s” story is pretty much detailed above and in several other posts.
Strange, isn’t it? I don’t think I have a penchant for girls with that name; it wasn’t really a positive or negative trait that I’ve considered before. The thought just suddenly occurred to me right now. Coincidence, happy accident, curse? I guess time will tell but I’m suddenly filled with absolute trepidation at the thought of another Katrina breaking my heart.