Cyclical

Appropriately, this blog entry starts while Piano Sonata No. 14 In C Sharp Minor (“Moonlight”), Op. 27/2, by Ludwig van, plays in the background.

Melancholy fills the airs.

The interplay of friendships and miscommunication fills my thoughts.

The renewed sensations of polyamory I first experienced in kindergarten when we took turns being boyfriend and girlfriend on playground swings, in cafeterias, lunchrooms and school buses…

He loves her, but not like that, she loves him unconditionally, he’s got more than one girlfriend, she has more than one boyfriend but wants only him for once.

She wants him, needs him, now more than ever.  Forever and ever, lovers and dance partners, alone on the stage making beautiful music together.

He wants to spend time with friends he hasn’t seen in months in her town after traveling across the Big Pond while she travels out of town on business the same weekend, knowing her best girlfriend wants to spend time with him.

Her best girlfriend remembers what she felt like after her divorce — disoriented, lost, afraid of crowds, wearing headsets to drown out the noise of loneliness and despair.

A word fraught with pregnant meaning and cultural connotations — hope — waits with anticipation.

It doesn’t help when insecurity makes her back itch in unreachable places.

And I, the author, like the best friend, am in the middle of all this, no one knowing my name, looking for a cogent storyline, something to hang onto, some hope that someone will remember my name when I’m dead and gone, knowing it doesn’t matter but it feels good to pretend it does while I’m alive because, gee, what else do I have going on in my life right now…really?

If we can’t find meaning, we can make meaning in our lives.

In that regard, we’re all the same even if we’re all different.

Today, I die another death, another forgotten day of hopelessness that stretches until the end of my days.

The joy of forgetfulness is not knowing how many of these days I’ve already died over and over and over and over and over…

…how many days I’ve picked myself back up, the hole in my thoughts of the death of my fifth grade girlfriend reminding me that life is an illusion of happiness that so many people perpetuate it almost feels real.

I take this imaginary dagger and jab it through my ribcage, ripping my heart apart, the pain searing my chest, filling my thoughts as the lights fade, my eyesight dims and…

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