My Continued Correspondence to my Love. E4

Subject: My Continued Correspondence to my Love. E4
From: Dean Ardwen
Date: 24 Sep 2019

It's been over a week since I last wrote to you. I guess there are a few things that you could assume from that, but in all honesty I just haven't felt compelled to write. A lousy excuse, I know. That, in and of itself though, is a significant piece of information. What it means is that I'm okay.

I don't know if you worry about me, or even think about me anymore. I like to think that you do, but it isn't essential to my happiness. Not anymore, at least. Yeah, over the passed few days I've felt... less. I don't want to think about it, but I could be slipping back into the eye of the storm again.

There's an upside to that, though. At least if I'm emotionless and plastic, I'm not tortured by the thought of you every day. That sounded far more morbid than I intended, but it was honest, so I'll keep it in here. The more that I think about it, the more I think that's what's happening. I'm slipping away again, into a false sense of complacency. I don't enjoy my music much anymore, and while the ballad of cleopatra brought tears to my eyes only a week ago, now I don't even feel like listening to it. Like it's just another song.

I know you know how I feel. The blanket. It smothers you softly with a kind yet oppressive weight, blocking out the sun and filtering out all the extreme ends of the emotional spectrum. In their wake is a profound meaninglessness, a disquiet that lulls you into a trance-like state where nothing matters, and you don't really care anyways. That's where I am right now.

Like I said, there have been a few advantages. For one, I no longer hurt at the loss of our relationship and your companionship. I would like it back, yes. And I would still do much to get you back to me. But it's easier to accept circumstances when you're numb. So now when I go to the gym or the beach, I don't berate myself for looking at other women with interest. I don't go to sleep clutching at the memory of you like it's my most prized possession. And now, when I check my phone, I don't check my email first. (I still check it, but only once or twice a day.)

Life in my house is easier. I guess when I'm not mourning what was, I'm easier to be around. You not being on my mind 24/7 means I can actually carry out a conversation without being distracted in my stoicism.

Those are really the only pros to this that I feel like delving into at the moment. It feels too much like self-rationalizing to try and think of more. I don't need you to think I'm okay. Because I'm not. But neither do I want you to worry about me. I've lived and loved, and I'll get through this just like everything else.

The biggest thing for me though, and why I'm so unhappy right now, is the lack of emotion. You know I must have said this a lot, but I don't typically feel very hard in any way. I never get super mad, I don't laugh a lot, etc. To me though, the passion that I had for you and for us burned so intensely that there will forever more be a shadow in it's wake. going from loving someone, from caring and sharing with this person everything, to what I feel now, it's... it's disquieting. Again, it's like everything is suffused with the color gray. Everything seems so fake, so unauthentic. A better word might be suppressed.

It doesn't even make me feel better to write right now. Maybe it's because I know you aren't reading these anymore. Well, I don't know that, but I can't imagine why you would. As ugly as the split was, I can only imagine that the less you think about me, the happier you'll be.

Which is fine.

I still hold onto the gift you gave me. You gave me the gift of perspective, and I can honestly never repay you. That, and the memories I still cherish, are probably the only reasons that I can function these days. I owe so much to you, and I wish I could tell you in person how grateful I am for you changing my life.

I love you, k. Now and always. As a lover, as a friend, as a kindred spirit.

Until next I can summon the motivation to write,