What Came Next or, After The Letter
by Joshua Paul Greene
I don’t even really know why I’m writing. I suppose the tone is dark, suppressed, almost as though there’s someone else in my head that I’m speaking softly to in order to work out my own feelings… I feel like I’ve been in my own strange movie these last few days; like I’ve been in the kind of movie I love because it’s so starkly different from my own life. In so many ways I feel different from myself. This is new to me – detachment is new to me.
I knew the most likely outcome of her receiving my letter. I realized as I was writing the letter that I had to be ready for whatever answer she gave, but I wasn’t prepared for this…
Her words were like a knife coated in sedative – numbing the wound as it cut. There were no feelings of pain, but when she was done – when she was gone – I could see the wound. I could see it, but I still didn’t feel it. Everything she said made so much sense, and the way she moved her intention smoothly across my heart left me with no option but to agree with her. As she was telling me that she couldn’t let herself love me, I sat listening to her, getting drunk on her words – just another thing to ease the psychological effects of watching helplessly as she cut me open.
I’ve heard that waking up in the middle of surgery can change your life – you find yourself laying there, helpless. There’s no control in that. You don’t realize what was done to you until it’s already done, and then there’s nothing you can do.
The only question left is, “How long will it feel painless before the sedative wears off and the reality sets in?”. Or maybe I can just stay drunk on her poetry until I find another drug… Or there’s a whole new story that involves the drugs becoming useless and irrelevant – a story that stands firmly on the concept that my own strength and power of resiliency will heal the wound as the intoxication recedes. I think I like that story. I think I like that dream. In reality, that’s my real, natural path. I’ve never been one of addiction to the power of people, but somehow that addiction, that particular incarnation of my life seems a bit more romantic.
Which brings us to another strange concept: Love is extra-worldly, however romance is firmly rooted in this perception of the world. The object of my search is to find an appreciation for love – an obsession with love and a simple and respectful disregard for romance.