A silly affair in any other circumstances

It hurt saying goodbye but sometimes you have to. So many times have I kept the charade going, knowing I'm seconds. Well, they may think so, but I am not. I spent half my life settling for nothing. Nothing is nothing, and I am far from it. I may be too much: passionate, intense, giving, but never nothing. Women like me end up alone, not because nobody wants us, we choose to remain that way, alone is better than in bad company. We are not meant to fight, we are not meant to compromise, we are not meant to understand; we are meant to be who we are, mess and all. And for me, it is madness and all.  Age was the best thing that happened to me, I've realised I am supposed to burn, and burn bright. There is no need to hide it. 

The quiet remains, it sometimes takes over. But my mind is loud and the fight is on. My guard has been down too long. But crazy is never quiet, oh no my dear, never quiet. Too long was two seconds, he came along and messed it all up. But the battle plan remains, he was an unfortunate setback, one which I will let go off, one which will hurt, but I am good at forgetting pain. Because a long time ago a flood broke this heart, and at last with a broken chest the walls went back up. And so to his face I could  lie, I said it was all OK. I said I was fine. The mistake was in showing him who I was. And I thought I was alone, but at the end I was not. That will forever be his burden not mine.

The music flows, and the incessant rhythm in me will not stop. This identity I have become will not cease on a whim. This torn, divided, multiplied self is what it is. And it breaks me, it tears me apart when I close my eyes to sleep. It crawls on my skin, turns me insane. It grows in me, it is me. And I hate him and I love him. This internal madness belongs to him. He turned lust to love, and that's no easy feat. Passion turn to life inside of me, dreams briefly real. And now, alone, but not, again, forever.

 And he was the man I loved, for a short and stupid time.  A time that now encompasses the universe. A space that is now me. And it was short and it was stupid, but it was beautiful and passionate. It brought life to my life; it was a silly love, a silly affair in any other circumstances. And I ought to be grateful for the pain, and the tears, but I am never grateful for life. Even now when I should be. Now that fantasy permeates the entirety of my existence. Now that I am questioning who I am, who I am supposed to be, and now, with this, with all of this, with this painful, radical splitting of the self, now that I have made the hardest choice, who am I? Who have I become? And as I write this I realise I am just like my mother: beautiful, creative and conflicted, Forced to live a life not her own, forever torn between the must and the want. My mother was a mother at my age, I am just a fool.

And I am a fool, even now all I want is the carelessness and endlessness, I want to forget. Even now when the quintessential adulthood rite of passage is knocking on my door, I want to forget. I want to forget all the meanings that existed, all the meanings I created in two. Because I am one, and the only meanings I can explain are singular. I can only explain myself as one, singular, and that is who I am, even if that means goodbye.

And maybe goodbye is the right word for it all. All I needed was a final show, one last broken heart. One last time to be a fool. Because I am so alone, there is no one else but me. That is the unfortunate truth. So there is only goodbyes