Journal Entry [0027]
Jan. 13th, 2016 12:52 amTwo months, a hellish period of time. Made worse by his presence. And yet...
And yet the words he said. 'Time. Make opportunities. Or take them.'
I've been presented with two competing opinions on what it could mean.
First there is York. His bias is so clear it need not be stated. Of all those tied to me when this happened, only he was outraged for me. Only he has ever sought to reforge what was broken, beyond Omega's brief suggestions of 'get on your knees and beg him.' York who almost seems to hold more hope for a reconciliation than I can bear myself because hope kills. Time. Maine needs time to figure out what he does and doesn't want. Essentially his advice is don't burn bridges, be patient. Learn. And when the time comes, reach for him again, hoping he truly does want to see if we can't refind what I destroyed.
In the second camp is TC. Yes, Maine wants time, but he also wants to encourage the chase. Wants me to beg and grovel and struggle to prove myself. Hold it just out of reach until finally I believe it's in hand, and break me with a single word. A final, definitive rejection.
I think he's not so directly cruel as to offer that. Nor do I think him so kind as to truly suggest some real chance in the future to think about this.
No, I think the answer may rest in a third option. One far crueler, fueled by something more bitter and ultimately far more devastating. And Maine, being Maine, may not mean to do it intentionally. He hasn't thrown me a rope to pull me out of stormy waters. He doesn't mean to pull me to safety just to throw me over again. Instead he's tossed out a life preserver.
And then sailed off.
Hope. What a cruel gift he gives me. Hope which I shall wake up to every morning, sleep with at night, and never see realized. Hope that eats away at the core of a man and leaves him hollow, immobilized, unable to ever act. Whether he knows it or not, cares of it or not, intends it or not, he leaves me with a slow poison I embrace that will eat me from the inside out. And I will embrace it. My will is truly that weak. Love so openly, freely, kindly shared that rare in my life that I will take my daily dose as it burns my body and leaves not even ashes in its wake.
What will I be when it deserts me and I scatter to the winds?
I doubt I will recognize that man at all.
Yet still, I cling.
And yet the words he said. 'Time. Make opportunities. Or take them.'
I've been presented with two competing opinions on what it could mean.
First there is York. His bias is so clear it need not be stated. Of all those tied to me when this happened, only he was outraged for me. Only he has ever sought to reforge what was broken, beyond Omega's brief suggestions of 'get on your knees and beg him.' York who almost seems to hold more hope for a reconciliation than I can bear myself because hope kills. Time. Maine needs time to figure out what he does and doesn't want. Essentially his advice is don't burn bridges, be patient. Learn. And when the time comes, reach for him again, hoping he truly does want to see if we can't refind what I destroyed.
In the second camp is TC. Yes, Maine wants time, but he also wants to encourage the chase. Wants me to beg and grovel and struggle to prove myself. Hold it just out of reach until finally I believe it's in hand, and break me with a single word. A final, definitive rejection.
I think he's not so directly cruel as to offer that. Nor do I think him so kind as to truly suggest some real chance in the future to think about this.
No, I think the answer may rest in a third option. One far crueler, fueled by something more bitter and ultimately far more devastating. And Maine, being Maine, may not mean to do it intentionally. He hasn't thrown me a rope to pull me out of stormy waters. He doesn't mean to pull me to safety just to throw me over again. Instead he's tossed out a life preserver.
And then sailed off.
Hope. What a cruel gift he gives me. Hope which I shall wake up to every morning, sleep with at night, and never see realized. Hope that eats away at the core of a man and leaves him hollow, immobilized, unable to ever act. Whether he knows it or not, cares of it or not, intends it or not, he leaves me with a slow poison I embrace that will eat me from the inside out. And I will embrace it. My will is truly that weak. Love so openly, freely, kindly shared that rare in my life that I will take my daily dose as it burns my body and leaves not even ashes in its wake.
What will I be when it deserts me and I scatter to the winds?
I doubt I will recognize that man at all.
Yet still, I cling.
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