What needs to be said
I hate Sundays lately. Hate, yes. As in HATE.
My Sundays lately are infested with hand-holding couples, happy families, picturesque dog-plays-with-happy-owner-by-the-river-scenes and noisy kids all over the place.
Even the weather seems to be in on the plot, it's disgustingly beautiful.
I took out my bike earlier.
Trying to be a bit positive, I thought maybe I could tire myself enough to not think, to not miss him so damned much. So I took off nicely, pretty on my bike in the sunshine, planning to go the beautiful route along the river, maybe pop up on one of those mountain tops I always look so longingly at, while down here.
I know perfectly well that if I ever got there I wouldn't want to be there anyway. Humans are like that. I didn't want my love when I had him, and now that love is gone, I miss him badly. Really badly.
I have been beating around the bush these last weeks. Passed time nicely enough but then again, I am never bored. I just concentrate and pour myself into whatever's in front of me. Painting, work, music, redecorating. I don't see it as fleeing reality or my feelings. Feelings aren't gonna change anyway, no matter how close up you study them. And they sure aren't going to change that some things just can't work out; feelings or not.
So as I see it, sitting down to wallow in it won't make me better. Might as well do the things I love to do, while time takes its time. As time is bound to do. And what comfort I find in that thought. That nothing I can do, (or not do) can change the fact that some things need time. It makes me feel small, and gives me a certainty that is rare, and that I love.
I thought that maybe my getting over him is a question of time, I underestimated the impact he had on me. But I find myself crying over stupid movies (crying just a little bit more than is acceptable, come on; how much can one person possibly cry over "House of the Spirits"???).
I go too fast by bike, my eyes water in the cold morning breeze and I find myself not just eye-watering, but literally crying. You know - while my makeup is ruined anyway and people in my office will think it's just the speed with which I ride my bike. They know me enough to know that I ride my bike recklessly. (But not that I do it crying obviously....)
This is just one of those never-to-be-loves that will dissolve in time.
It didn't work out.
It never could have.
Il nostro per sempre perduto Atlantide, indeed.
He heard hardness, cynicism and survival, I said honesty and heartbreakingly sincere fear. He heard strength, selfsufficiency and independence, I said "please help me break down this strength that is only mine, I'm tired of carrying the load, let me be the little one".
He saw sex, I felt love.
This is why it could never have worked out. That is what I tell myself.
It just don't seem to work on Sundays
My Sundays lately are infested with hand-holding couples, happy families, picturesque dog-plays-with-happy-owner-by-the-river-scenes and noisy kids all over the place.
Even the weather seems to be in on the plot, it's disgustingly beautiful.
I took out my bike earlier.
Trying to be a bit positive, I thought maybe I could tire myself enough to not think, to not miss him so damned much. So I took off nicely, pretty on my bike in the sunshine, planning to go the beautiful route along the river, maybe pop up on one of those mountain tops I always look so longingly at, while down here.
I know perfectly well that if I ever got there I wouldn't want to be there anyway. Humans are like that. I didn't want my love when I had him, and now that love is gone, I miss him badly. Really badly.
I have been beating around the bush these last weeks. Passed time nicely enough but then again, I am never bored. I just concentrate and pour myself into whatever's in front of me. Painting, work, music, redecorating. I don't see it as fleeing reality or my feelings. Feelings aren't gonna change anyway, no matter how close up you study them. And they sure aren't going to change that some things just can't work out; feelings or not.
So as I see it, sitting down to wallow in it won't make me better. Might as well do the things I love to do, while time takes its time. As time is bound to do. And what comfort I find in that thought. That nothing I can do, (or not do) can change the fact that some things need time. It makes me feel small, and gives me a certainty that is rare, and that I love.
I thought that maybe my getting over him is a question of time, I underestimated the impact he had on me. But I find myself crying over stupid movies (crying just a little bit more than is acceptable, come on; how much can one person possibly cry over "House of the Spirits"???).
I go too fast by bike, my eyes water in the cold morning breeze and I find myself not just eye-watering, but literally crying. You know - while my makeup is ruined anyway and people in my office will think it's just the speed with which I ride my bike. They know me enough to know that I ride my bike recklessly. (But not that I do it crying obviously....)
This is just one of those never-to-be-loves that will dissolve in time.
It didn't work out.
It never could have.
Il nostro per sempre perduto Atlantide, indeed.
He heard hardness, cynicism and survival, I said honesty and heartbreakingly sincere fear. He heard strength, selfsufficiency and independence, I said "please help me break down this strength that is only mine, I'm tired of carrying the load, let me be the little one".
He saw sex, I felt love.
This is why it could never have worked out. That is what I tell myself.
It just don't seem to work on Sundays
Comments
- måske derfor synes det mistede så dyrebart,- fordi det evigt. Og evigt tabt?
Søndagsknus og varme tanker
Jeg er paa vej i karbad, det er dèn vej det hele vender i dag. Billie Holiday, roedvin paa karkanten og stearinlys til den fysiske og mentale varme =). Soendagsknuser back
ja der er et eller andet OEVT over soendage. Og dèt der ku' have vaeret men som ikke er. Men det er nogengange bare en vaerre fedten rundt i fortid og luftkasteller. Jeg forsoeger ihvertfald at komme videre.