Raining Day, San Francisco

You don’t do emotions. There always is going to be a gaping hole, between the stories you tell and excuses you make. I’m drawn to that.

I stop asking questions. I am not good at confrontations. I am not good at finding out why. I don’t want to know why.

I stop questioning about my motive. I am comforted by my duality. One seeks truth, honesty, communication and understanding; one seeks primal desires being satisfied but require mystique and unknown. I understand how passion is derived and therefore I do not need everything explained. The more I know, the less I feel. The less I know, the more I feel.

I sometimes hang on to every word you say to me. I sometimes forget everything you’ve ever said to me, and when we do get together, and when you use the word “we” I am astonished.  I have no idea that we are an unit, we are “we”. “We” is an intimate word, and “we” implies something more than I have ever hoped for. I see you, I see me, I have not seen “we”.

In those endless raining nights of San Francisco, I can hear your voice, telling me about the hiatus that we take – between the river rafting trip to now. So what is now, where is now, I ask. “Now is now.” You say. That’s what I will always remember, and that's what I will hear.

You don't remember this, and neither do I. But I read it somewhere, you used to say to me, "What is truth?" I don't know what is truth. I don't expect to hear truth from you.  I am drawn to that aspect of it. To not really know the truth. To not really be in control. I don't want to be in control. I like free falling, and not know if you will be at the bottom of my fall, catching me or watching me drop, break into millions of pieces. You won't shed any tears. You don't do emotions.

I feel like taking a hiatus. Again. In the rain, in the life that without you in it. I like the distance, both emotional and physical distance that you have created between us. In the distance, confronted by the unknown, I write stories about you, me, we, us.

I like looking afar, staring into the abyss that the other me is in. The other me, stuck in a black hole, waiting to be rescued; for that quantum leap, waiting to be released, from that darkness that is known as longing. "Longing for what?" If you were near, you’d ask me. I have no immediate or definitive answer. "Just longing." I'd answer.

But I know that I’ve always longed for the past, longed for the present to be gone, longed for an alternate future where you are present, with me, always.