When it comes time for the end, we should just let it go. We should let everything go.
I always think about him. I think about his loneliness, and the neglect that he must be feeling. I think about how he might feel when he comes home to that empty house and sits down with himself, his cold dinner starring back at him. I think about the things that are running through his head when he drives around town and guesses at what we’re up to; whether we’re at a movie or out with friends, and whether or not she’s spending those moments with us. I think about what he must be thinking. Is he ever truly sorry? Does he ever admit to himself how stupid his actions were? Does he miss us? Would he care if I started a revolution today or if I died trying tomorrow? All of these things continue to circle in my head, grinding my gears and making me think.
Yes, I love him. I won’t lie, and I won’t throw a fit and say the opposite. The truth of the matter is that I do care whether or not he lives or dies. I do care when he hurts. I do care about what he’s thinking. As awful a person as he makes of me, I think of him every now and again and hope to the stars in the sky that he’s alright. I hope against hope that bad thoughts don’t find a way into his head. I think of whether or not he’s taking care of himself.
Whenever we talk on the phone the conversation is static. He’ll ask me a question and I’ll answer without the added effort because I don’t know what to say. In turn, he doesn’t know how to respond. There are hundreds of words we feel inside but can’t say on the outside. There’s a shield that blocks the openness of expression between us. Whenever I hear his voice, I become angry and annoyed with everything he’s done. It seems like I can’t forgive him when I see him in front of me. All the things I had previously thought about are shot to hell because I end up feeling just the opposite. I end up feeling the same hurtful emotions of everything he’s done to me. To us.
I suppose the only remedy to all of this is time. Time makes everything different. It makes the wrinkles and creases on his skin dominate the rest of his image. It makes the way I perceive things to be different. It makes his increasingly staggering actions heavier in my eyes. Time turns him into an old man. It reverses all his past actions and he becomes a helpless stranger in my eyes again. It brings back all the things I once felt about him.
Time gives us the chance to become someone different. Someone new.