My biggest fear is that I’m undeserving of happiness. I say that because people in my life have always become lessons. Everyone comes and goes, and I figured there had to be a reason for people I loved to disappear. I make everything make sense; I’m supposed to learn how to be independent, I’m supposed to learn how to stop being clingy or needy. There was always a greater design that made the pain of being left behind worth it. My suffering was always warranted.
I don’t usually let myself miss peuple. And I Don’t let myself reach out. My expectation of disappointment trained me out of that habit, but it didn’t stop me from wishing that things could just be okay somehow. Not storybook perfect. Just reasonably happy and okay. Normal, even.
I daydream a lot, of course. But I also wanna be realistic. (That’s a gross word). Realistic as in, “I want to have daydreams that could come true.” The pandemic still seems realistically unreal to me. And tonight I feel sad because if it wasn’t for the virus, celebrating a year with you and your birthday and Christmas and New Year’s in Germany would be a very very very realistic daydream. I would even go so far as to make a traditional countdown chart, just to put time in perspective.
I know there’s still time; but politically, for an American, realistic daydream doesn’t really have room to grow beyond just a wish for the moment.
When I say that I’m terrified of not being able to see you again, I think mean that I dread the thought of getting so sad and lonely that I rationalize you away, into a lesson about love, instead of being able to forgive the universe for this being neither of our faults.