The damn River of Nostalgia pulled me in tonight. Not in pictures, like it usually does, but in poetry. I started rereading old poems I wrote years ago. And I discovered two things.
In this moment I want nothing more in the world than to know if Jack still loves me, or if he ever did.
And I could still write the same poems today that I wrote about him 2 1/2 years ago, except now I wouldn't have hope that they would change, as I did then.
In fact, I'm still an incredibly wounded 17 year old. I'm also a lot of other things, including a sometimes-confident-almost-20-year-old-artist, but that 17 year old hasn't gone away. And knowing now that things would continue to not change, while my self of the past kept hoping they would, is incredibly sad. I wish I could tell my 17 year old self to stop hoping. And that's even sadder. Hope is my middle name, and that's always been important to me. It is, actually, literally my middle name. I have to have hope. It was given to me at birth. So how can I find myself in such as situation as this, where I want to stop hoping? Perhaps losing Jack would be less devastating if I could stop hoping something would change. But I have to keep hoping something will.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment