Waxing Poetic/Waxing Pathetic

This is my Christmas present to myself, because at least I don't have to fumble around with tape, wrapping paper and a ribbon, only to give up after an hour, wasting half the roll of wrapping paper on failed attempts.  Plus I would have to try to find a box that would fit. I suppose if you fanatically follow this blog (tragedy of the year, right here) you might enjoy it as well.

I spent about 20 minutes figuring out where to file this, whether this should be something I revisit occasionally, but I suppose this may just be a once-in-a-lifetime thing. It isn't exactly easy for me to find inspiration for the topic I wish to address, probably because I don't do much valuable thinking even when I stare contemplatively out a window.

What follows below may be completely true, entirely fiction, or a mix of something in between. What a tease! How you wish to interpret that is up to you, but I have to let you know, I feel extremely relieved this will likely never be analyzed to death (like we all are taught to do in academia) by anyone. Eschewing details is one of my specialties it seems, so another complication for the imaginary reader - am I being vague on purpose, or is it simply that I have absolutely no relation to the material that I can only to paint broad strokes? Well, they do it on GLEE all the time and millions of people watch and enjoy it, so it's not an impossible dream, now is it? Or maybe, for all your psych majors, you could say I have yet to confront these thoughts I have in my head and that I need to pay you hourly to tell you I'm crazy. Sorry, but I already know I'm crazy.

(Oh, and if you have absolutely no clue what the title means, you may want to google "wax poetic"; the second half is pretty much self-explanatory from that point.)

Here goes nothing:

How long ago was it since our last moment together? I can remember that moment so vividly, it was most certainly a goodbye, but I did not treat it as such. Easily, the regret  fermented moments after the event. Almost three years have gone by. Perhaps I have fallen into that oh-so-predictable trap: a rose-tinted view of the past. The irony is unbelievable, myself a history student, to subscribe to it. This is worsened by the fact I idealize this past, become cognizant of it, yet I do not wish to break free of it, because I have nothing else of worth to hold on to.

Arguments were our fuel. Nothing substantial, just about petty things like falling asleep during something important, or taking the wrong directions. Nothing we couldn't solve just by airing it out and laughing over it. They almost had a comedic ring to it. If suddenly life was framed as sitcom, the audience would always respond at our conversations with laughter. Idealism again.

I felt as if I knew you back then. Now, I only feel like I knew nothing about you at all. All the real details are foggy, and only this simplistic ideal I created remains. You were more complicated than that, as people are bound to be. Yet I cannot concede to this simple fact, lest I shatter this dream.

Others might recommend I should try to get back in touch. Facebook? Even Facebook recommends I should. But this is a coward you are addressing. Perhaps I do not wish to confront her, too much time that has passed. Two summers, almost three years. "You never know what will happen", they might say. I don't want to know. I fear the change time has wrought on both of us. Idealism and pessimism, a deadly combination.

Recently I had a dream where we both starred. Like with my other dreams, most of it was a blur, but you were of unreal clarity. We had met again, yet you had changed so much. Both of us wanted you to stay but you had to no choice but to leave. Typical romance movie trope, I realize. We said our goodbyes and cried. You forgot your coat but I could not bear it to find you and return it to you. It was all I had left.

I enjoyed every waking moment of it, even if most of it was spent with you joking about how ridiculous I looked while asleep in a chair, or playfully getting cross at me for the smallest mistake that I made. I don't believe I ever told you anything about myself. I was always somewhat aloof, a problem I cannot seem to rid myself of even to this day. Was what we had something that someone might define as love? I can never be sure. Perhaps we were nothing more than kindred spirits. Regardless, what I would wish more in the world would be to tell you. To apologize for being so aloof the entire time.  I just walked away from our final moment as if I didn't care. But I did. A terrible goodbye scene if I ever saw one.

Well, that would make a terrible short story, wouldn't it? Publisher repellent, right here.