I wanted to tell you about the kind of music I’ve been listening to, how much it reminds me of you. You were right, the words are hardly as important as the melody and the way it makes me feel.
I wanted to let you know that I’ve been feeling less anxious about doing things I like, that I took your advice about doing shit just because I wanted to, because I can.
I wanted to say that I fucking miss you and that there isn’t a moment where your absence doesn’t gnaw at me from somewhere inside, I’m not quite sure where.
I wanted to tell you that things are different now and that although different might not necessarily be better, I’m not who I used to be. I guess I’m thankful for that.
I would’ve really liked for you to have known this new me, since you are largely responsible for her. I like to think that you are always with me, always watching, always smiling in that knowing way, always protecting.
I wanted to let you know that I love you, and that I know now what that means. I don’t ever want to treat you like a memory, because a memory has little place in the present beyond momentary acknowledgement. I’m realizing that a bond like ours doesn’t unravel in the face of something as meager as distance or time or reality.
I wanted to tell you that I’ll always be yours, whether or not you existed.
“Do you think about it?”
“Oh, all the time. It’s the sort of thought that never goes away, you know?”
“How does it make you feel?”
“All sorts of ways, mostly sad. There’s this lingering sadness that functions as the constant backdrop. Over that, sometimes there is a moment of fleeting excitement, reluctance, confusion, happiness even.”
“Is that the only way you’re able to feel happiness then, momentarily and through connection with these thoughts?”
“Well, no. I mean, not necessarily. There are different kinds of happiness, aren’t there? I suppose I am able to feel other kinds of happiness about and for things entirely seperate from these thoughts. But no other happiness seems to count as much as this one. Perhaps that is because this sort of happiness is so difficult to achieve and maintain, it becomes more valuable to me in its rarity and mercurialness.”
I meant to tell you before that I didn’t think anything mattered. I guess I meant to tell you that I was living, but that I didn’t think that meant anything.
I suppose I’d been avoiding having that conversation with you. The one about how I didn’t think that this moment was any more real than any other that had occurred, or that this passing time exists any more than something like a thought or a memory.
I’m finding now that it was wrong of me to hide these ideas from you, even if I meant no malice by it in that I supposed you were already familiar with the way I perceived the world (if not completely approving of it).
I guess I’m sorry I never let you know that I disagreed with your belief that we have a purpose, that your optimism is somehow more valuable than my apathy. Even more, I regret never making my emotions plain as I am making an effort to now, when you aren’t here to acknowledge my sorrow. I guess I’m sorry I never apologized. Alas, as you must now realize, I am painfully aware that my apology bears no more worth than its absence ever did.