it’s crazy how i’ve become dependent on my conversations with you. i’ve learnt to care about what you have to say and sometimes i just want to call you spontaneously, i just want to grab you and hold you here and never let you go.
then, sometimes, i just want you gone, completely, out of my life. i want you to leave, using the very same door you used to get in here, leave without leaving any traces of you in my heart, my home, my life.
i even know what it is that makes me feel like this. that’s right, i know.
it’s your posh, middle class ideals;
your typical perfect family with a mother that cooks, cleans, looks after the home and father who sits in the evenings reading a quality newspaper;
your unwillingness to experience the world through teenage eyes preffering instead to live your life as a person of double your age would.
and yes, it’s wonderful to watch plays and attend dinner parties, but i want more than a boy acting middle-aged. i want that maturity without the deeply ingrained conservative inclinations, without the Kafka-style cynicism about humanity. could you do that?
and i wonder if you could, sometimes. i wondered about it today. it was wonderful, really: realising that i’ve found something so close to my ideal that i will never be able to make it my ideal, no matter how hard i try; realising that my ideal is unattainable and that an arrogant blue-eyed, blond, mathematically-inclined, yet literature-aware boy (provided one existed, and i’m sure that there are some) would never look upon me with anything but dismay. and even if i managed to show him my true self without him walking away at first, he’d still leave, because i’d only be a notch on his bed-post, a phase. a little like you are to me.
after Y, i realise, that i don’t need a boy to make me happy. i thought i’d never be able to let him go, but i have. i managed, somehow. it’s beautiful, wouldn’t you say? it’s odd, too. it’s odd how things change so quickly and effortlessly and how i, being able to psycho-analyse the lot of you, was unable to understand mayself at all.
i still don’t think i know myself, because, now, having found out you’re going to france for not even a week to spend your new year there, i feel sad. betrayed almost. how could you leave me? what will i do without our conversations? how will i cope without your shoulder to lean on?
strange. i felt like that with Y and look what’s happened. i can’t even talk to him without getting irritated. sometimes mildly, sometimes to the point where i need to then have heated discussions about him with you. or my dad. or my mum.
and yet, you somehow think i’m still competing for him, but i just laugh it off. it’s nonsensical. there is no truth in it. i don’t want him, no. i think i may have loved him one time, a while back now. hell, maybe he even loved me.
then again, what is love?
that’s a question i can’t answer for some reason, so help me to. please help me to.