/ Lakeside

"It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat.
You have parted two people who were happy."

I cannot help but think I am not yet old enough to understand what it truly means to charge full speed at an immovable object for the sake of a young lady's honor, or to think yourself insane because everyone around you seems so normal, only to stand back and see you have no indistinguishable characteristics other than a tendency to walk around with your fingers crossed. One day, she will look at me after years of patience done run out, say, I don't know why we're still struggling. You were so talented, and still, here we are, and I don't know why. I don't know why. I always believed that any day we would make it, and ever day happened, and still, here we are, and I don't know what went wrong, and now our lives have passed. Oh, god. I waited and hoped and believed and waited and waited and waited. And waited. Oh, god, oh god.

I know this is the kind of fool thing your grandmother warns you against saying 'cause it'll stick if someone hits you just right, but I just know that when I come back in my next life my one goal is to get my heart broke more. Put little cracks in the places untouched by heartache, make it look like that cracked glass what was all the rage in the 70s, cracked glass tumblers, cracked glass mirrors, cracked glass jewelry, thousands upon thousands of facets.

Or maybe even to come back, in order to prove my insanity, my uniqueness, exactly the same, to live every day the same and never lift a hand before each mistake, but internally roll my eyes and think, Remember this? That was crazy. Just wait til tomorrow.

It would seem perfectly sane, though, on just a few occasions, enough to disregard the flaming wreck of your life, because mile post 151 was exhilarating beyond the ability of time to contain, confusing and maddening and far too hot for any actual enjoyment, and here is why I never paid attention in physics, because by natural law it should be impossible for a few hours holding hands along a lakeside path to count for years and years of daily commutes and weekly reports and personal grooming and unsatisfying entertainment, but it does. Collapsed stars apparently weigh as much as the real thing, with the benefit of not causing blindness when you look back for too long.

I've been looking back so much lately, so intent on the immovable object that if not by sheer will then by sheer determination cause it to at least crack at the foundation, a smile of a crack, and then set upon it, because I am incapable of resisting this urge to make milestones out of moments.

Would I ever forgive myself if I lived a life unworthy of reliving? I don't intend on finding out.