I’m not normally good at putting up a tough face. Its true, I’m sensitive and emotional. I like to think of my writing as bleeding onto the paper (screen) and can’t rightly survive without it.  But with this whole thing with Kayley I’ve been trying so hard to keep moving, to put up that tough face. That last blog entry I wrote…it was good for me. But it doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt. And just because I’m glad and excited to move and to go to grad school and all that that entails, I will miss this place sorely. I always do this. I get attached. I know I must leave and recreate myself again elsewhere but its been fun. Yes, fun.

Its not like that. Its not that I’m stuck or that I was even terribly happy here. Just like its not that Kayley and I could have worked and that we should’ve stayed together. Nor is it that I’m just projecting my ideal vision of a woman on to her–although some of that has gone on. This is sincerely the feeling of endings that occurs at the end of anything that was good. And I mean good not in any non-conflicted way, but in an epic, familiar, personal sort of way. Its like the end of a good series of books (like Harry Potter, for instance) or a tv series or a good movie. You’ve come all this way together and the sheer knowledge that its over, that there is no more to come, that you will never see dear Harry fight any more battles in this wizardry world–that itself is a tragedy.

I feel that right now more than I ever had. I feel it about this apartment. I feel it about little ol Columbia, SC. I feel it about my time as an undergraduate.  I feel it about Kayley.  No love in the future will allay that feeling of intimate concern for her existence and adoration for her. It is true, I must move on. It is also true, I am lonely. Yet I am happy in the way that one is happy even in a mixed ending, where Sirius dies but you know that Harry will carry on.

Yes, thats right, I am using Harry Potter references. Because I know you’ll know them.

But I suppose I must get back to cleaning….

The rain streaks my glasses like the tears that are too knotted and tangled inside to be released. I walk up this dark street in this rain and look around this complex. Undoubtedly it was our place. I cannot escape it. Here is the pool and it reminds me of her bikini that she only wore for me, the one she looked so stunningly beautiful in. And how we always wanted to go swimming but never seemed to find the time.  This office where we first signed this lease together. The laundry room we so often (but not as often as we should have) visited, carrying her little flimsy plastic collapsible laundry bag, the one with the flowers and butterflies on it.  These streets…where we had our first big fight because my mom had just bought me tickets on a short notice for a trip to California with no thought of her.  I will be leaving the apartment soon, only a month from now. The thought is almost too much to bear.

I torture myself because I want to remember. I can’t stand it when people block out the past as if it isn’t worth anything. Every moment of my life, both good and bad, has been intriguing and worthwhile. No experience yet has matched the beauty of my time with Kayley. She taught me what it means to love someone, what it means to be cared for, to be close to someone. For the first time I was alive in someone’s eyes. And it was no passing phase, but real, sincere, love for each other. The power of this will never leave me, even as I move on in time.

Could we have worked? Probably not–our differences caught up to us, our mistakes culminated, our language melted away to uselessness. But was it worth it? What sort of question is that? Of course it was.  I don’t want to forget a moment of it. I will always care about her, always love her, always wonder how she’s doing. Why wouldn’t I? Am I not entitled to care for someone even if I no longer am with them? Isn’t the fact that we shared such time together make it insane and heartless to just completely turn away and black out the past? The pain is only in the fact that I miss her face, that I miss knowing she’s ok, and knowing that I could call if I need to talk or just hang out–without any need for these insane tanglings of love.

So I’ll reminisce now because I don’t want to forget. I’ll reminisce about all the good times and the bad times and grin wryly about how young and hopeful and exuberant we were.

We really were so hopeful. From that first kiss to the last. (continue reading…)

Two sided time,
Your rebirth can’t hurt,
Branch out behind, the pain.

~ “Closure” by Chevelle

I look over my life and see that every enormous, drastic, heart-rending change that has occurred in my life pushes me closer and closer to the type of person I want to be. I see in this progression not a breakdown of myself but a breakdown of what is unnecessary within me. I am not there yet but I can see how this will continue and, with every new shift, every new rift in my existence, will only propel me with greater clarity and understanding towards the type of life I want to live, the way I want to be, and the way I want to situation myself in the world.

So it goes, and I am happy with it. Change is life. Stasis is death.

The past is a grotesque animal
And in its eyes you see
How completely wrong you can be.
~  The Past is a Grotesque Animal, Of Montreal

Time passes like the clouds, constantly shifting, moving, intertwining in wispy mirages of understanding.  We move with them, are them, become them.  Most of our time is simply spent trying to grasp what is going on, to understand where we are going, and why it is that we have caught this particular wind today.  On heavy days we cry and find ourselves dissapating into the air and melting into the ground.

Two and a half years ago I found myself blowing in a direction that scared me, based on all kinds of assumptions and silliness about what it meant to live and believe.  I didn’t know where I was going.  I had found out after a year at BYU that I didn’t believe in God–not in the natural strong way that most people seem to. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t an assumption that came easily. I realized I was completely agnostic–every argument for God being met with an equal argument against–there being no natural inclination within me towards one side or the other to settle the matter. I had spent a whole six months thinking over the consequences of this realization, wondering what it meant for my life, for my relationship to religion.  Where would I go from here? What would I make of my life? All I knew was this religion? And had I really given it a chance? Had I given all I could? Perhaps, I thought, this simply meant I needed to just choose to believe.

I couldn’t wait forever to decide.  Life had to keep moving. I hate stasis.  I still held an arrogance towards the rest of the world that extended, honestly, even to many in the church. I hated people and all of the horrible things they did–things that made no sense to me, that were endless streams of frustration.  But I figured the church was better than all those people I didn’t understand the world outside the church. So I kept on the path that was expected of me.  I put in my papers and got assigned to to go to New Zealand speaking Chinese.  But everyone knows that part of the story.

Enter girl.  Astonishing really. Why did this girl call me up after nearly two years of little contact? Why was she really upset that I was leaving?  I had already gone away to Utah–why was this any different? What relation did that have to me?

No matter. Two weeks later I walk into the Rock Hill Steak and Shake and see her there, that little freshman I knew now two years older, far more wiser and mature. We sat and talked for three hours, much to the annoyance of our waiter.  Who knows what we talked about. It doesn’t matter.  It was the most enjoyable night I’d had in…ever actually. I’d never had anything like that. Even thinking back on it…never had I ever felt as relaxed and just…fun with anyone, ever.

Four weeks. Thats all I had between that meeting and the time I would leave. So we decided to meet again the next night.  So we went and saw a movie–Music and Lyrics, the one with Hugh Grant in it. Great movie. Afterwards we went to Starbucks to try to get her favorite banana shake but they were out (they actually never got that back…). So we just sat in the parking lot and talked. That was when she told me she was an atheist, expecting me the uber-mormon to never speak to her again. Instead I told her of my struggle, of how I wasn’t sure if I believed in God and that was partially why I was doing what I was doing. As I talked my fingers played, as they always do, making a rose from the paper napkin in my hand.   (continue reading…)

An excerpt from my letter to Curt, written July 1, 2009–the day Kayley moved out.

So here it is. Finally. The culmination of two years of working it out, of experimenting, of struggling and trying. Most people were oblivious to this process. We put up a good front. Always a good face. We’re fine. We’re great.  Even in our little apartment here we mostly got along fine, keeping our uncertainties and difficulties out of the incredible and delicate process of loving each other.

Now, I will declare it calmly, but I’m delaying, trying not to let it become perfectly clear. I don’t want to say it.

Nathan, that friend of mine, he knocks at the door–so I stop writing. We are talking, chatting, trying to laugh. He helps me move the bookshelf.  The futon lies open and exposed in the middle of the living room, soft and ready to consume my tired and dreary body. I wanted to rearrange the furniture but only succeeded in turning the futon and moving the bookshelf. But it seems like enough. When I did it, the change made a strange feeling inside that is the wicked step-sister of contentment. I said out loud, “I am going to sleep here, in the middle of the living room.” Inside, I knew I could be ok with that. Posters–I’d get the posters I’ve always dreamed of having and put them right there where I’d place the computer desk, which was freshly chopped in half and looking puny without its other appendage. It wobbles now but its ok. And I’ll live right here in the living room, TV on one side with the Xbox, computer and books on the other side, and me in the center.

Nathan leaves and gives me a hug–odd yes but well deserved. “Run,” he says as he leaves, “Get out now. Do something you’ve never done before. Start now. Its healthy. Overstep your boundaries.” And he leaves.

I sit back into that perpetual quiet that has overtaken this apartment. I have learned to call it home. The thought sends a pain through me so I withdraw it, not taking the bait, the fears and horror and tears hiding themselves back within the deep caverns of my chest.

I switch into shorts and a white undershirt. I don’t warm up. I don’t stretch, I don’t care. I am out the door, around the corner of the building, under the tree and sprinting across the grass. The night is dark and heavy. A wind blows and I feel the first drops of coming rain. I cross the street with hardly a look and continue down a street I’ve driven on day after day for two years–but never walked on.  It looks the same from here and is not as long as I expected it to be–both unexpected conclusions that distract me from other thoughts.

I run to the bridge where I know a single bench sits. I’ve always wondered why there was this random bench there. Why would you place  a bench beside the bridge like that? I see this bench now and realize I am far beyond my comfort zone, which is where I ought to be. Never have I ventured this far from all places I’ve known without the comfort and restriction of a car. And I realize that comfort and restriction are one and the same.

I see now that there is a path that winds down past the bench. It turns sharply, a tree greeting each bend before turning back. To the right I see the underbelly of the bridge rise before me, the long enormous tubes of utility pipes an odd and unsuspected yet retrospectively obvious sight. It begins to rain a little and the wind picks up. As I approach the river, the noise grows louder–frogs, crickets, and odd birds mixing with the angry hiss of the wind in the trees and the vicious flow of the river.

The path juts off to the left along the river and I see that it winds lazily along the water, a well formed sidewalk with benches and picnic tables punctuating the scene. This was here the whole time? And I never came down here? 2 years? And this, this fantastic beautiful riverwalk–and I never took Kayley down here?!

The wind greets me rightfully with frustration.  The rain begins to beat with the earnest intent of instilling fear and adding to the mystery of the night. In my pocket, my keys jingle in time with my steps. I enter a section of darkness and the fear takes over–but I just keep moving. It continues like this, sections of winding light and dark, the river always on the right, full of odd shapes and sounds. A frog leaps out of my way, my foot nearly crushing its little body. Something bites my leg. Still I move.

Now at the other end, there are a few cars pulling away from a police car. It makes me feel criminal and the adrenaline impulse to run increases my pace. I sprint up to State St and cross to the line of downtown-style storefronts. I slow to a walk. I’ve passed these stores hundreds of times. They look different. I peer in every window. A fine dining restaurant, two coffee shops, a club, a comic store, and a flower shop. Further down, an antique shop, pub, and a gay bar. All right here, just down the street.  I keep walking; the last little bit is short and I am home again. the words stumble out like I stumble in. Now I write and I write of the experience. Anything so I don’t have to write of her, to remember all of the amazing times that I will never have any more, that are now over and gone–the amazing sense of tragedy hovers like a bug around the dim light of my faintly, calmly beating heart.

See, she’s gone and she isn’t coming back. It is final. It is the end. She’s gone. My Kayley is no longer mine. This Princess has been cut loose. I am now alone again, free again, but oh so alone again.