I should be finishing this reading for class.
But this writing itch has been tickling my fingertips, nudging the back of my mind, and while I can’t do it justice tonight, I needed to get it down. I need to at least gently pull on the narrative thread, to start the unraveling process. I hope to flesh it out (more) completely as the book project becomes less a horizon than a reality…
I’ve been thinking a lot about regrets, but not in the sense of things I wish I had or hadn’t done, per se. I regret who I was when I met you. I wasn’t in a place to meet anybody. I wasn’t myself, but it’s only now that I have some distance from that ‘me’, that I fully comprehend the gravity of it. In hindsight, I’m not sure you were you, either. I guess it’s that regret that keeps this on my mind’s periphery, and refuses to shelve itself for good. I keep wondering if the timing had been different, how (and if) it would have been different. I wonder if we could have been friends. I suppose it’s not worth the contemplation. I don’t expect to ever see you again. But it still feels like a loose end… perhaps the narrative thread needs to be re-wound, instead, pinned in place and tucked away.
I think, what I’m struggling with is this enduring conception of you. Again, I don’t think I ever really knew you. I think I had this unreal illusion of you, a liminal you caught between reality and fantasy. Then again, maybe that was a facade, one I created or one you presented. I’m not really sure.
…maybe I’m just trying to forgive myself.