Neither here nor there

I remember having a sense of who I was and what my life was like that was fairly consistent. There were images and feelings attached to these ideas.

I could be somewhere else remembering myself or my life, and the same sorts of images and feelings would come to mind to reenforce that sense of identity. Those images and feelings comprised the setting and the context for myself and my life.

The point I'm getting at is, I don't have that sense anymore. Who I am is undefined. My life is much the same. The images and feelings I used to refer to have been changed and scattered. The setting and the context are in continuous flux. I'm this, and my life is that. That's all. But only for now.

I do wear that jacket you gave me. And you come to mind each time I put it on.

There's a lot about you and I that I can't romanticize. Things time hasn't softened. Like the misery of the feeling that came with the distinct impression that you were looking past me when we were out together. The knowledge that you had your eyes peeled for an upgrade.

It feels good to give what you have, to be whole-hearted, to someone you're in love with. It becomes hell, though, when the sum total of you is clearly not enough for that person. But then again, in a material sense, what are you really giving when you give love? It won't pay the electric bill.

So, yeah, there's a lot of shit there. Some say I dodged a bullet with the way it turned out. So why does it still feel like I got shot?

But it's not so cut and dried. There's a whole lot to consider. What happened between us wasn't part of anyone's plan. I was significantly older, had baggage (yeah, you called my children baggage), and was in the divorce process which would soon divide my meager estate into two tiny portions. You were trying to emerge from tragedies of your own.

You never signed or promised anything.

Maybe no words you could have said would have made any difference. I guess I respect that you didn't tell me a bunch of bullshit at the end. But man, that's a hard way to do a friend.

I think about you softly most of the time. I hold no bitterness for you.

Mostly, I'm thankful for the time we had - the time you gave me - and for the way you lifted me when I was very low. Cinderella, the Blue Man Group, walking lower Manhattan in heels.

Tonight there were memories of hot pot, anchovies and peanuts with chopsticks, egg tarts.

No, it was never a playground like you joked it was. It was always heaven.

In sum, I guess I was dreaming something beautiful and didn't want to stop. Don't blame me if I want to return.