Let me start off by saying that you did nothing wrong. It's me, it's all me.
Isn't it sad how I sit here, aching to revisit last night, pining to feel alive once again? I keep saying that I'm through with it, I'm done, I don't want to see you again. I want to sever all ties. But it's a lie; deep down, I know that this isn't true, and I'm cursing myself for getting involved in this whole thing in the first place.
And why? We had a fantastic time last night. It's all because I was expecting something else, something more--as I always do. And, time and time again, I end up feeling as disappointed and empty as I feel right now.
I'm sitting here, sketching halfheartedly. I can hardly force myself to bring anything to a finish. I'm restlessly jumping back and forth from one task to another while revisiting scenes from last night--my legs curled around you, your body against mine, your cold lips pressed against my chest as we hide from the wind.
My mind won't sit still. What more could I have done? I ask myself. I want to talk to you right now, more than anything. But I would have nothing to say to you. We usually let our bodies do the talking.
The other night I went through a drawer in my nightstand where I kept all of the love letters I've accumulated throughout the years and threw all of them in the garbage. Interspersed with the letters were some journal entries that I wrote in high school, and almost all of them were about girls. My life back then revolved around romantic relationships, much as it does right now.
As much as I like to think that I've matured emotionally since then, these journal entries spoke of the same exact feelings I'm experiencing right now--despondence, emptiness, and general despair--all because I felt ignored by someone I longed for. The fact that I haven't changed in terms of the way I view my interpersonal relationships saddens me deeply.
I have always been extremely susceptible to heartache. I'm beginning to think that I'm a sadist, because I pursue unsatisfying relationships like ours and push away those people who accept me completely.
I find solace in words when people can provide me none. And this is something that people can never fully do for me; at the end of it all, it's up to me to make peace with things. No one else, no matter how loving they are, can help me lead a fulfilling life.
It's a scary thing to resign to the fact that we all are, essentially, alone in all of this. But this is something I have to fully realize. Until then, there is no rest for me, and I will continue to suffer.