Bring out your dead
Sep. 12th, 2004 09:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootI am not locking this, though it is intensely personal to me, but last night has brought it out and I will deal with it now. Some might prefer to stay well away from it. Any abusive comments will be deleted.
A lovely evening with an old chum last night. Excellent food, a leetle champagne, much talking...and because it has been a long time, they had to ask that much loved old chestnut, 'What actually happened between you and [insert name]?' And because it has been a long time, I answered with equanimity, or as much as I possess. I find I do not possess as much when hit spontaneously with the matter, as when I have time to prepare.
And that whole terrible time rose before my eyes again.I found it hard to eat my food, because the memory was like a thickening in my chest. What did I really feel? The roar of anger and betrayal after all this time? the contempt that quickly became hatred?
It seems not. No-one has caught me crying into my beer, weeping over betrayal; I would not give anyone that satisfaction. They knew my anger, they barely guessed at my sorrow. The time came when I learned more of the whole story, and a part of me wanted to make it all better. Another part of me felt contempt that on knowing the truth, the other party could not accept it because they had taken a stance; and a final part of me delighted cruelly in the poetic justice of it; that when the truth was finally all but known, they were cutting themselves up inside, nice deep slashes, because it was easier than facing the gallery and taking off their mask. What else, after all, do they have? Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell...Poor satan! All your own work!
And what of the poor satan who writes this? Which part of me won?
The poison faded a long time ago. And I remember instead the person who was so kind to my mother at a party. My old friend whom I loved*. That is the real point, love is the real point. Love may hurt but it doesn't die. Mine is not dead, so either it was real love for a real person, or it was real love for a person who never was/ceased to be...an invention of my own mind. It was so long ago, I no longer know. But I will treat it with respect, just as I do any other kind of real love, and I will be kind to it, whether it be deluded, betrayed or dying.
So I guess the good guy won.
*Not like that, naughty LJ!
A lovely evening with an old chum last night. Excellent food, a leetle champagne, much talking...and because it has been a long time, they had to ask that much loved old chestnut, 'What actually happened between you and [insert name]?' And because it has been a long time, I answered with equanimity, or as much as I possess. I find I do not possess as much when hit spontaneously with the matter, as when I have time to prepare.
And that whole terrible time rose before my eyes again.I found it hard to eat my food, because the memory was like a thickening in my chest. What did I really feel? The roar of anger and betrayal after all this time? the contempt that quickly became hatred?
It seems not. No-one has caught me crying into my beer, weeping over betrayal; I would not give anyone that satisfaction. They knew my anger, they barely guessed at my sorrow. The time came when I learned more of the whole story, and a part of me wanted to make it all better. Another part of me felt contempt that on knowing the truth, the other party could not accept it because they had taken a stance; and a final part of me delighted cruelly in the poetic justice of it; that when the truth was finally all but known, they were cutting themselves up inside, nice deep slashes, because it was easier than facing the gallery and taking off their mask. What else, after all, do they have? Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell...Poor satan! All your own work!
And what of the poor satan who writes this? Which part of me won?
The poison faded a long time ago. And I remember instead the person who was so kind to my mother at a party. My old friend whom I loved*. That is the real point, love is the real point. Love may hurt but it doesn't die. Mine is not dead, so either it was real love for a real person, or it was real love for a person who never was/ceased to be...an invention of my own mind. It was so long ago, I no longer know. But I will treat it with respect, just as I do any other kind of real love, and I will be kind to it, whether it be deluded, betrayed or dying.
So I guess the good guy won.
*Not like that, naughty LJ!
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Date: 2004-09-12 04:25 am (UTC)Did the good guy win? I honestly don't believe it's that simple.
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Date: 2004-09-12 09:30 am (UTC)And out there in the arena? The heart is steadfast, if it was ever true in the first place. Anything else is just a story.
(IMHO of course)