I had never wanted to be one of those inane bastards, those bastards that wander around in a perpetual state of quirkiness with a retarded grin. But somehow I felt I was being coerced into that role or maybe I wasn’t, maybe I relished accepting state of diminished responsibility.
Analysing all those old emails last night, from three years ago right up to the present day. I suppose it’s not a huge stretch of time but to read the dialogue between us then, to sift thru and watch it gradually extinguish, well it was a haunting thing.
So I had awoken in this nightmarish mistake, this awry parallel universe. What did I do? I went to her and asked her assistance in building a time machine. In an emotional context you understand. I had some of those emails printed out to support my case. But she only smiled sympathetically and I understood there was now a gulf. Impassable. The horrific realisation that I had helped construct this gulf. And this awful certainty that it would never be bridged now and nothing would ever be resolved. It was an aquatic sensation. I waded over to the couch and collapsed into a foetal position.
I groaned and my flesh was stinging me, I needed something to remove me from my own flesh.
I’d had this revelation on hogmanay at a particularly decadent celebration i.e. decadent in terms of substance abuse. I realised given the choice between a life of drinking and drugging and a life of settling down with a nice lassie well the latter option was to be preferred. But then again, who’s to say one has to commit oneself to either extreme, could one not carefully meld the two with deliberation and discretion?
Ah, it was too late, little did I know I’d driven her into the arms of another man by then anyway.
She confided this to me in cryptic terms over the phone on new year’s day. And so from here on I ached.
That sympathetic smile. The polite aversion. I’d lost my mind along the way, made an insane mistake. Could it be repaired?
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