When things were so blissful because I was in love. When my heart floated somewhere outside my body, and every day, I felt blessed. I was given a rare privilege, to embark on a life journey with another, and to vow oneself to that final objective. I found out that our ideas about togetherness were different, and our love was expendable. Somewhere back in the mercurial onset of our relationship, I was so very deep in love with you, so very proud and ready for the world. I was not dealing with my own personal stuff, but my life was so good, so happy, that none of it seemed to matter. I know now that it does work in at you, no matter how hard one tries to repress it.
I learned the hard way about myself, and how I need to be cared for. I wasn’t getting the right stuff, in the end, because the whole thing just got so convoluted and distant that it stopped making sense to me why we were still together. I remember thinking about it, but honestly, I knew she made me happy inside, every day, to have her in my life. Even as limited as things became, I still yearned for her affection. Like the way it was when she first came to my town. When we whisked her away from that rotten life she had been stuck in and brought her to a safe place where she could grow. I thought this was the plan, anyway. I wanted to build something with her, and I never took care of my own shit and lost my chance to do that.
I find myself more melancholy after I’ve consumed a great deal of alcohol the day before. I get so sad sometimes, remembering how good it felt to be hugged, loved, squeezed. How deep I was in her, how vital and fun we could be together. The way we were always laughing about something, no matter what it was. Or doing some unexpected, spontaneous, kooked-out thing. It was her originality that I admired, and it’s the driving force behind her creativity, which I know is profitable and still believe every dollar we spent on jewelry supplies was well spent. Never doubt committing resources to the creativity of others.
I guess this is the sad part of being too nostalgic. I get lost in soupy memories of good feelings, where I was stretching to the top of my comprehension of happiness. I remember those good things just as much as the bad, because I know what it’s like to be ecstatic, and I know what it’s like to suffer. This gives me a keen awareness of multiple emotional states. I know that though I may be happy right now, I’d be happier if I were in love with her again. I would be happier if I was doted on, smothered with affection, kissed, held… I don’t deserve any of that, but I certainly know what it was like to have it. I miss it so much sometimes.