delusions of delirium

Last night I never finished watching Eternal Sunshine. My viewing was interrupted by WS; her text messages informed me she and her 9-mont-old  son were moving out of the apartment she shared with boyfriend/baby daddy (just for the record, I loathe that term) and moving in with her sister – all of this on her first mother’s day, of course.  Apparently his habitual herb and alcohol usage finally broke her and away she went.  Never mind that the opening twenty minutes of Eternal Sunshine broke me emotionally, her text messages sent me over the edge and I, for reasons still unclear to me, began bawling like a 5-year-old.  I wanted to say, Just give me some time; I’ll be making decent money in less than a year and things won’t have to be so difficult for you and your son. And I couldn’t help think that if age hadn’t been a factor when we first met fourteen years ago and we somehow stuck together, our lives would be completely different today.

I can’t stop thinking about WS’s past, present, and possible future.  The thoughts are making me an emotional wreck; my eating habits are suffering; and my mood has been depressed.  And it’s all so fucking pathetic.  Despite our contacts, she remains much a mystery to me. I know I’m overwhelming her with my contact – I know I am. But I can’t silence the profound experience this “reunion” has had on me.  What does it mean, if anything? I still don’t know why she sought me out after fourteen years.

With each passing day, the puzzle pieces of this experience seem to lessen and the picture becomes more incoherent.  Is this some ruse?  And if it is, what would be her motive?  Attention via FB and text messages? Seems unlikely.

And what am I doing? Drawing lines between dots that do not exist? Pulling assumptions from a well of delirium?

Under all these unanswered questions I believe – or perhaps, for the sake of rationalization, I must believe – that this long-lost connection serves some fateful purpose. This parallel was destined to form.

Or maybe all of this is exhibition #4693 in the trial of my suicide – and yes, for the first time in years I’ve contemplated that act of self-destruction. Not because my desire to be with WS is based on extravagant presumptions (all of which are probably false), and not because I fear I lack the courage to end my relationship with GF, but because these fascinations and intellectual deficiencies are so cancerous that the only cure is methodical exit.

Why do I do this to myself – every fucking time?

t/c/m

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~ by the coordinates of memories on 9 May 2011.

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