Vertigo Writings and Other Lies I Tell Myself
Tonight is the first night after the storm. Tonight, we keep our distances — I keep my wall, and you? You get to keep her. Tonight, I rebuild the fence and decide that you are to stay out of the borders, out of that line that you have crossed. Tonight, I give up — you, us, and everything else impossible.
I have grown accustomed to your presence. I have gotten used to the long drives, breakfasts, weird conversations, stolen glances, kisses, good night wishes, secret passing of notes, among others. I have grown accustomed. I’m reiterating these words for you to realize that it was just that — not much emotional investment or perhaps, the bigger word — love. No, I’m sorry. That was you (or so you claim). But definitely that wasn’t me.
After a couple of weeks together, I came to conclusion: I do not want a relationship. At least, perhaps, unfortunately if I may add, not with you. How difficult it is to spend everyday knowing that you aren’t fully mine. That all those rare times you do not send your usual abrupt responses, you are with her. That every moment we are apart, I know now you spend it with someone else. That every intimate moment we share, you share with someone else. That the dear words you tell me embraces another.
I have told you time and again, you are not mine as you claim. You are hers, and I am my own.
Assuming you have the situation ironed out, I would still say no. For a bird may love a fish but where are they to build a home? We are too different. You can never walk my pace nor I be able to trudge your road. I refuse to be selfish. I don’t want to stay out of convenience.
Or maybe not. Maybe I am selfish — too selfish that I want you all for myself when I can’t even give you any assurance I would always be here. Maybe I am too selfish for pushing you off the cliff but not rushing towards the bottom to catch you. I refuse to give you a chance — for I hate inconsistencies, I hate lies, I hate words turned pretty to make you feel better. I want rawness. I want the truth. I want you to tell me that hey, I do keep it a secret. That every time, I have to clear traces of you. That every time, I lie to both faces. That I can’t tell you certain things because they’re ugly. That I have to fake it to impress you. I want to hear that you are not being fully honest. That at the back of it all, I am a distraction. I am a drug. Because truth be told, what are you doing there if you claim to love another? How difficult is it to make every one understand? To just turn your back to someone and accept that you are to lose the other with that decision?
I have no idea if you are a disgusting two-faced bastard or just a coward. Maybe both.
Do not get me wrong. I care. I can miss you every hour of every day. I can ache every minute knowing that looking back meant staring at an empty seat. I could be all these but that doesn’t mean I am or could or would (ever) be in love with you — not even a quarter of how you are to me.