Clocking in at 50 days, I just came out of the longest writer’s block I’ve ever had. Let me be the first to say it was the closest thing to hell I want to ever feel again. Not the block itself, of course, but the circumstances it transposed itself over.
I think what really broke it was a pair of dreams I had last night. I dreamed I was back with an ex I haven’t seen since 2012. I’m over the whole thing now, but it was during that state of unconsciousness that I realized I’ve only ever been truly in love with that one person. Or soul. Whatever. The point is that —after a long month of self-realizations and a pastiche of familial issues and monetary trouble, all overshadowed by my constant un-love of myself and all that that implies — it seemed like a big deal.
No matter how brief it was, it was the best season of my life.
The dreams were nothing profound: just us together driving around the countryside, a little older than we are now, a little more at peace with ourselves, and a little more free to be together. It’s nothing close to plausible, but it would be nice. I’m aware that I’m the only one of us that still imagines what we were, and I’m okay with that. It’s a good barometer of happiness for me.
Anyway, though I know you never think of me and I know you pretty much want to punch my face in given the opportunity, you still make me happier than I’ve ever felt otherwise.
I think that my last two relationships have failed because I’ve never really gotten over you until now. Not completely, at least. I believe that, in that last moment of dreaming as I fell asleep with you in my arms only to wake up clutching a pillow, I finally broke that wall that’s kept me from opening up to anyone since. Convenient, since I have a date on Saturday night.
I’m sorry and I love you. I really do. And I did. I know you won’t read this, but it’s something I needed to get off my chest. Anything Goes, I guess.