Every year that goes by and I don’t miss this season at all. I’m always first in line for it without really knowing it. It’s one of those weird seasons too, you know? Arbitrarily created seasons but they stick because people like it or something: Black Friday, Groundhog Day, Leif Erikson Day. Okay, not super arbitrary but you know…the sort of weird, misplaced holidays that people go, “oh” at.
That’s the exact response I have when I enter the season about you. I go, “oh” and then I spiral into you.
It’s so weird. This season comes without warning and it comes with such great intensity until I realize how fucking hopeless it is to celebrate this particular season. There’s no point. I mean, I guess there is a point, the point of feeling happy and numb at the same time. That’s melodramatic. Let me try that again.
I say that I’m not a romantic, and I’m really not outside of writing and my mind. Hmh, on second thought, maybe I am truly a romantic but love to put up a front that I’m not. HO HO HO, take that, free therapy!
However, I’m the fucked up kind of romantic. The sort of romantic that no one ever wants to confess to being, which probably explains why I automatically say that I’m not one. I’m fucked up because I love being the pitiful romantic that loves to proliferate lost causes.
Drama queen in other words. I am the biggest drama queen within my internal kingdom, and I love every heart-wrenching moment of it.
I miss everything about you. I miss that your words can instantly cheer me up and feel all sorts of weird things, and I know you also have the ability to break me apart with your words.
I’ll admit that no one has ever come close to the things you’ve said about me, and I’m sad that I can’t remember them verbatim.
The only things I do remember is how much love and attention were put into those words and the actions you provided.
I don’t think I ever learned to grow up and let go of the concept of love.
It boggles my mind that people can learn to love another human being again, and probably love even harder and better the second, third, or tenth time around. Maybe loving someone gets better with practice, but I’m sure there are a lot of us that finds more comfort and joy in searching.
Maybe the selfish explorers entertain love over and over again, not to love better and harder, but to further validate the love they couldn’t hold onto. As you can tell, I’m trying really hard to avoid using the cliche of “the one that got away” because this season never went away.
How the fuck can the one go away when they’re constantly embedded in that one part of your mind that contains sparse knowledge of arithmetic from middle school? You just don’t think about that kind of stuff anymore because you don’t need to, and you genuinely forgot until something triggered that weird, frustrating place.
I miss talking to you, man. I miss my best friend I once had and I won’t fuck up the good things we both have if it means being friends again.
Here’s to you never finding out anything about this because you’ll never run into this, and because I know you only like to do the right things. You’re too noble and good.
Miss you, bud.