Monday, February 07, 2000
Hmm, I looked over the journal today and noticed rather sadly that it lacked
any emotional depth.
Here, this is from about six months ago. It's the most heart wrenching letter
I've ever written. And, it didn't work of course. Once love is gone in a
person, or if it was never there, fighting for its existence is like struggling
Then again I do fly hang gliders. Bah. Stupid heart.
I know that it is too late, for you have withdrawn what of your heart that
you had given me. Before we part I cannot live without telling you more of
who I am, in the vain hope that you will see that perhaps you have withheld
your deepest thoughts from me in error -- mistaking me for a much simpler and
shallower man than I am -- a man who could not possibly connect with you on
the level with which you deal with existence.
The way you expected me to behave on my return, in response to the uncovering
of the truth, leads me to think this. That you take me to be an amusement,
an intellectual and physical playmate with whom to share pleasure and pass
the time, rather than as an equally complex and rich spirit with whom to
connect and revel in love and in deeper pleasures.
I can see how this could have happened, as it happened to me as well, only
longer ago. You thought that you had found this connection with B --
your heart leapt with fullest strength into the possibility -- but you
discovered to your abject horror that you had deluded yourself. That you had
attempted and committed a connection to a being that was sick and not capable
of fully living but only of self torture and need. I can imagine what this
must have done to your heart.
And then you met me. T, I have been alone in my thoughts for a very
long time. My high school years were spent searching for some shred of
meaning, some answer to the cries for understanding and love in my head, some
reason for not just ending my life out of hopeless loneliness and boredom. I
studied various philosophies, but found them all to be artificial and
unsatisfactory -- the ruminations and constructs of others who seemed
satisfied with what they had built, but which left me emptier still. It is
for this reason that I referred to Nietzsche as an old friend, for he reminds
me too clearly of the torture and loneliness I went through.
So how did this simple surfer physicist dude come from that? It was by force
of will. I made the conscious decision to play the game. To act and revel
in action and life, perhaps for many years, rather than wallowing deeper into
the hopeless abyss. I learned how to fight, how to surf, and learned the
pleasures of women. I even committed my heart to women to an extent, always
with pain as the result, as I never shared of my inner self and tumultuous,
often twisted thoughts. I could no more share this with them than I could
teach calculus to a dog. But I did accept their love, and I know that it was
because I didn't share myself with them fully that I caused them much pain.
And then I met you. My older, deeper self cried out to me that maybe here
was another! But the timing was horrible. You weren't looking for something
deep, but only for the shell I had created. You had given up finding
another, burnt with the horrible pain from B. So I went along with it, I
leapt to take what I could get of your heart when I could get it, in the hope
that we would share more deeply.
Perhaps it is folly to think that we could connect this way, for I am not
sure that it is even possible. It is more likely that we are doomed to the
confinement of our solitary minds. But that fate, seemingly inevitable, is
so lonely that I can not stop myself from the attempt to make one last effort
to reach out from it. To you. Now.