him: 'About your response to my letter, I don't think you need to reply.'
me: 'what?'
him: 'I don't think you need to respond,' (sounding very comfortble and relaxed) 'I think everything's been said.'
me: 'no, you've said what you had to say, now it's my turn.'
him sounding confidant: 'but we both already know how the other one feels'.
me: 'if you knew how I felt your letter would have been very different.'
him: 'but I was thinking, if you hadn't written it yet-'
me: 'it is written. I'll see you in five minutes.'
Five minutes later.
him, smiling: 'we don't need to do this, what's left to say?'
me: 'I need to correct a couple of your assumptions.'
him, big smug grin: 'was I so wrong...?'
me: 'oh yes. Read it. Bye.'
I leave him with letter that says, in short, 'no I didn't dump you because of my work, I did it because you're an emotional fuckwit, a crybaby and a sad deluded lunatic if you think I ever loved you or ever could. Please move abroad at the nearest opportunity.'
et finis.
During my short time with you know who I was often warned of imminent serious conversations, summits and 'realisations I must discuss with you' and my stomach would always churn at the idea.
He just phoned and asked if he could borrow my sunglasses for a few days more (he's had them for almost 2 months).
'Yep' I said. 'Oh, and in the next few days I will have a letter for you in answer to yours.'
'..... is this something I need to prepare myself for?' he asked with a nervous laugh.
'Um...hmm.. I'm sure you'll survive it.'
I hear the sound of someone else's stomach acid working for the first time...
I have cut down the bliblical ramblings as much as possible, and corrected the spelling mistakes but left the bizarre sentence structure as is.
with perhaps a few teensy remarks from yours truly...
Life doesn't always happen the way we want it to, such is the inevitable truth that flew from you mother's lips right into my core, and targeted a massive attack [sol: that's a band, lunatic] that threatened to reduce my face to a shroud of tears [sol: Eastenders reduced his face to a shroud of tears, get a grip]. Be strong, you also said, but I am weak at my best. I am fragile, too easy to break, and also relatively easy to rebuild.
Your kind is not new to me, no, not entirely to say the least, still your obsession or indivualtiy comes not out of fears or traumas, it comes out of choice. I have known several with your outcome, but for different reasons. You're different, for you it's a matter of choice, and within me something unnamed snaps [sol: spine?] , breaking me in two, one mind, one heart. Of course I understand your choice, to choose between your career and me. [Whoaaaaaaaaa horsie! He is still telling himself that I merely made a choice between him and work? Oh dearie dear... even in a choice between him and used cat litter there would be no contest. Lunatic.]
The problems come, when in the time between shattered peices and being whole again, new parts are found, and this, my love, has been taken to extremes.
The heart is not willing to accept the mind's argumentative speech, it understands the mind's point, yes, still it is so eager to bend itself to fulfill its will. I've been thinking about myself lately [Oh just for a fecking change] , asking the near cliché questions like ''why am I the way I am?'' or ''what do I exist for? [good question]'', I seem to have been built exactly for long-term relationships, my feelings are of sheer power, my memory is weak enough to forget all about last relationships, so the conscious mistake of drawing comparisons between two individuals is beyond my reach, I learn fast the art of understanding another person's ''why's'' and premises of life. And most importantly my heart is weak enough to be easily bent, despite the forseeable consequences.
[pass the bucket, someone].
Sooner or later, the heart is bound to lose, for the only thing that could shatter reason and grant the vibrant blood's victory is you. And since you are so very much like me, I don't think you'll change your mind. Even if you do still love me, you'll probably not go back on your decision no matter now reversible it is. [STOP! ''still'' love him? When did I ever? And when did: 'I have never loved you and never will' mean the opposite? Time for a final dose of truth, I think. AND he still thinks I may 'reverse' my decision. Lunatic.]
The ink, my dearest, is failing, which is a shame really, for there are so many things that I would love to tell you about.
If indeed whatever we had is doomed to non-existance, I would like to safeguard a friendship, which would even be of your liking, I believe, for my attention span to my friends is quite thin, much less than they deserve. And for my frienship there is no spotlight, you have to work hard to hold a candle. [Tempting, no?]
A strange kind of animal, am I not? [10 points to whoever can guess what kind. I've given up as I don't think hairy leeches exist].
I hope that this letter hasn't frustrated you, I wrote most of it with quite a smile and with great pleasure.
Whether we should or not ever meet again, I wish you the very best, I love you still with great intensity, and although I've been angry with you and considered you most unfair, I cannot hold anything against you. I don't think I ever will. What happened to us was my fault.
(there's a lapse of some short time here, then...)
I lied to you, in the other letter, I lied. I do not, cannot, accept your decision, in me there is still a hole. I still believe in the silent existance of love in you that may answer my own. [Scared yet?]
I'll start this by explaining to you the why and how am I writing this. I've spent these days, to me months, trying to believe your words, trying to commit murder against my feelings. Memories come in a massive attack. [There's that band again]. And memories with hope as their ally.
And yes, I still have hope, hope that you'll call, even in the middle of the night, saying that you miss me, that you need me. I don't even believe you will, I have hope, which is not necessarily a contradiction I believe.
I was betrothed by the vision of you.
Poetry, that's you, sheer poetry, poetry with a capital P. From tragedy to laughter, poetry love, poetry.
I'm ready.
And you're right, and you're not right... Fuck!
You don't deserve a spotlight, still you do deserve it. Oh fuck it.
............ etc etc ad nauseam
There's (quite a bit) more, but it's all the same. It reminds me of the famous Gollum/Smeagol argument with himself.
anyone got a volcano?
...lurking at the corner
and who sneaked behind it even more when he thought I'd seen him (which I'd pretended I hadn't)
while I walked the dog
at 9am
before popping out and saying he just wanted to buy me tea
so now I'm in possession of the infamous letter that has since grown to ten pages.
haven't read it yet and I don't know if I want to (and go from calm, contentment to nauseated ire)
but if/as/when I do... hands up who wants edited highlights?
'I'll stop bothering you'' he said. Again. My arse.
Now we have texted cryptograms:
10:52 AM
''converted to the traveller i never was. 1 hour to arrive at my beloved town. No time for love. Everything must be done in a hurry. love.''
My one ray of light is this means he's out of MY town for a day or three. Huzzah!
I'd decided to treat the family of chicks to a take-away and was waiting outside the house for Grannykins. The sound of our big front door opening made someone stop in the street and turn to look: angeltwat.
Too late I'd stepped out and he saw me, and stuck a pose. I stood there (and muttered 'fucking great') he stood waiting for... for what? For me to give some signal that he should rush over I suppose. Long wait.
I tried to smile without seeming too inviting, and forced out what felt like a zombie rictus. He put his nose in the air and ponced off.
I knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that when I finally returned to the computer after dinner there would be a message there from his Highness, and sure enough Old Faithful didn't let me down.
9:22 PM
you have no right to hurt me this way. Not now, you lost such a right. I'm a wreck, at least show some respect. You have no right.
Right. Okaaaaaaaaay. Now the first question to address is what do I reply with?
I'm tempted by: 'You're not a wreck, you're a wanker. Save your melodramas for someone who gives a bollocks. If you think that hurt then you have no idea what I'm capable of, want to find out?'
Update:
In the end I was somewhat less scary, my reply was:
'What the F are you on about? Save your melodramas, they're the reason I ran away in the first place. Right now I have more important concerns than your imagined insults.'
And here come the replies.
number one:
''Don't bother answering, I know what you'll say about expectations. I just hope everything about the house turns out ok.'
(What the feck was I going to say about expectations? Nothing nearly as prosaic, I was going to say 'twat').
number two:
''Forget it S. Keep on protecting yourself then. I'd just like you to know something. I'm on nothing. No melodramas... I just expected a warmer reaction.''
(burning oil warm enough for you sweetie? And he clearly doesn't know the phrase 'what are you on about'. twat).
I had to laugh about the 'at least show me some respect' comment. Next time I see him I'll salute.
Final Update:
11:00 PM
''i'm sorry... i really am. It's just that i feel so alone. I'm sorry. I wish i could turn back time. i won't bother you again.''
promises promises.
While the house matters refuse to be resolved I was overjoyed to get another plethora of whingey texts from the ex. And then a phonecall in his slightly-too-high-to-be-masculine voice: 'I need to talk, I need to get some things off my chest, I think I'd feel better'. Oh well, that's the important thing, but my house appears to be sinking and the sight of you makes me vomit, so how about some time next year?