[fragment]
mccreadyisgod
Posts: 6,395
[okay, so it's unedited, written quickly... had the first two sentances in my head and started typing... put it to bed, or flesh it out?]
She was happy, mostly. Or at least I like to think she was.
And I’m not naive enough to believe it was all my doing, or mostly. Maybe partially. It takes a while for anyone to develop a tolerance for me, and even then, only the quick and the perceptive can even begin to follow. I am amusing to some, mostly myself, and I like to believe that I’ve made her smile.
So I’m not naive, but I’m egotistical. And what of it? I believe in myself. There are worse things a person can do to themselves. Lie, perhaps. Too many people feel the need to put up facades, even to themselves. I’ve been guilty of lying, sure, but I at least give myself the benefit of the truth. And I try to do the same for those around me. But
back to Stacy.
Nobody I ever knew cared that much about others. I mean, truly cared. There are people you know in life who always seem worried or concerned, but Stacy wasn’t a worrier. Or at least, not just a worrier. She was the kind of person who would cry because you couldn’t. Occasionally, I would return the favor by crying for her.
Okay, I cried over the fact that I loved her. I loved her so much that I couldn’t ever make her love me. I tried, of course. But I couldn’t force her to. Perhaps the greatest irony of life is love, after all. We all search for that perfect relationship in which one person needs and cares for the other in equal amounts. Unfortunately, that can never work. I care for the woman in the car next to me in equal amounts to how she cares for me, but we’ll never marry, never have children, never watch the sun set on our 50th wedding anniversary with the same passion as our first.
With Stacy, though, I felt like I loved enough for both of us. And perhaps that is true, that the love I had for her was equal to the amount of love most couples share. And in that moment of loving, doesn’t everyone feel they love enough for the entire world? But that’s not enough, not the right answer either.
Was it our differences? Of course. We were different people from different backgrounds, different families, different life experiences. We shared many things, too. We both loved movies, and books. We even loved many of the same movies, and the same books. We both believed in the power of truth, and trust, and the admission of weakness being an ironic strength.
We both loved music. Without a love for music I would never have met her.
And of course I remember it so well. It wouldn’t make a great story if I didn’t remember. Sitting in the office where I worked my student job, the job I’d had for more years than it should take to graduate. And her, so young, vibrant, expressive, alive. How could I not notice? How, in fact, could I avert my attention? Small, slender, shoulder-length dark hair, bright eyes that are both wise and confused. Her smile was more than an expression, it was an affirmation of life and of possibilities.
I suppose I looked that way, once. Walking onto the campus that summer, believing everything was possible and nothing could prevent me from being what I was meant to be. Shrugging off the past, the tethers of my parents and the preconceptions that predicated high school. Professors, doctors of everything, ready to question me and challenge me and prompt me to the levels I could never achieve among the masses of public high schools. And the only question I had to ace was, “What next?”
Stacy’s eyes said many things, but the most obvious was, “What’s next?” And I fell in love with those eyes at that moment, even though I didn’t recognize it for a short while. Perhaps it was some element of narcisism that led me to fall in love with her, because I couldn’t help but feel she was who I had once been. And I feared she would face the same realities as I faced.
Not that she was entirely naive, either. Hell, she was an expert compared to myself at her age. I had missed out on the dirty underbelly of existance, and needed to scramble to catch up. I’m still catching up. Stacy, on the other hand, had seen the things that sober and mature. Unfortunately, those things were not entirely in her past. No matter how much we have seen, the page always turns.
To her credit, Stacy succeeded where I had failed. Where I had fallen into depression and disillusion, she had grasped at everything in front of her. Where I forsook opportunities, she jumped. And I admired her, and was jealous, but mostly I was glad that she had side-stepped some of the anguish I had felt once the shine on my dorm-room floor had worn away.
I wish I could say that I fell into fits of alcoholism, or found the joys of marijuana and other narcotics, or became addicted to cheap sex (again, it would make such a better story), I instead wallowed in my disillusionment. I stayed up all night reading, and slept through most of my classes. I played guitar in my room, alone, writing songs about my current girlfriend, and those songs compose an operetta detailing the entire rise and fall of our relationship. Nor were the songs brilliant, or pogniant, or even remotely engaging; rather, they were trivial and juvenile and predictable. At least the melodies were catchy.
But it was during this time that I discovered my student job, the one thing that has grounded me since I left my parents’ home and declared myself a person. And it was then that I gave up my idea of graduation, followed by law school, followed by a few years fighting the good fight for the ACLU, followed by a respectible private-practice career with a cozy salary, a cozy house, and a cozy family. Should you ever find me on the cover of a Hallmark card, sell your investments in that company immediately, for the end truly must be near.
She was happy, mostly. Or at least I like to think she was.
And I’m not naive enough to believe it was all my doing, or mostly. Maybe partially. It takes a while for anyone to develop a tolerance for me, and even then, only the quick and the perceptive can even begin to follow. I am amusing to some, mostly myself, and I like to believe that I’ve made her smile.
So I’m not naive, but I’m egotistical. And what of it? I believe in myself. There are worse things a person can do to themselves. Lie, perhaps. Too many people feel the need to put up facades, even to themselves. I’ve been guilty of lying, sure, but I at least give myself the benefit of the truth. And I try to do the same for those around me. But
back to Stacy.
Nobody I ever knew cared that much about others. I mean, truly cared. There are people you know in life who always seem worried or concerned, but Stacy wasn’t a worrier. Or at least, not just a worrier. She was the kind of person who would cry because you couldn’t. Occasionally, I would return the favor by crying for her.
Okay, I cried over the fact that I loved her. I loved her so much that I couldn’t ever make her love me. I tried, of course. But I couldn’t force her to. Perhaps the greatest irony of life is love, after all. We all search for that perfect relationship in which one person needs and cares for the other in equal amounts. Unfortunately, that can never work. I care for the woman in the car next to me in equal amounts to how she cares for me, but we’ll never marry, never have children, never watch the sun set on our 50th wedding anniversary with the same passion as our first.
With Stacy, though, I felt like I loved enough for both of us. And perhaps that is true, that the love I had for her was equal to the amount of love most couples share. And in that moment of loving, doesn’t everyone feel they love enough for the entire world? But that’s not enough, not the right answer either.
Was it our differences? Of course. We were different people from different backgrounds, different families, different life experiences. We shared many things, too. We both loved movies, and books. We even loved many of the same movies, and the same books. We both believed in the power of truth, and trust, and the admission of weakness being an ironic strength.
We both loved music. Without a love for music I would never have met her.
And of course I remember it so well. It wouldn’t make a great story if I didn’t remember. Sitting in the office where I worked my student job, the job I’d had for more years than it should take to graduate. And her, so young, vibrant, expressive, alive. How could I not notice? How, in fact, could I avert my attention? Small, slender, shoulder-length dark hair, bright eyes that are both wise and confused. Her smile was more than an expression, it was an affirmation of life and of possibilities.
I suppose I looked that way, once. Walking onto the campus that summer, believing everything was possible and nothing could prevent me from being what I was meant to be. Shrugging off the past, the tethers of my parents and the preconceptions that predicated high school. Professors, doctors of everything, ready to question me and challenge me and prompt me to the levels I could never achieve among the masses of public high schools. And the only question I had to ace was, “What next?”
Stacy’s eyes said many things, but the most obvious was, “What’s next?” And I fell in love with those eyes at that moment, even though I didn’t recognize it for a short while. Perhaps it was some element of narcisism that led me to fall in love with her, because I couldn’t help but feel she was who I had once been. And I feared she would face the same realities as I faced.
Not that she was entirely naive, either. Hell, she was an expert compared to myself at her age. I had missed out on the dirty underbelly of existance, and needed to scramble to catch up. I’m still catching up. Stacy, on the other hand, had seen the things that sober and mature. Unfortunately, those things were not entirely in her past. No matter how much we have seen, the page always turns.
To her credit, Stacy succeeded where I had failed. Where I had fallen into depression and disillusion, she had grasped at everything in front of her. Where I forsook opportunities, she jumped. And I admired her, and was jealous, but mostly I was glad that she had side-stepped some of the anguish I had felt once the shine on my dorm-room floor had worn away.
I wish I could say that I fell into fits of alcoholism, or found the joys of marijuana and other narcotics, or became addicted to cheap sex (again, it would make such a better story), I instead wallowed in my disillusionment. I stayed up all night reading, and slept through most of my classes. I played guitar in my room, alone, writing songs about my current girlfriend, and those songs compose an operetta detailing the entire rise and fall of our relationship. Nor were the songs brilliant, or pogniant, or even remotely engaging; rather, they were trivial and juvenile and predictable. At least the melodies were catchy.
But it was during this time that I discovered my student job, the one thing that has grounded me since I left my parents’ home and declared myself a person. And it was then that I gave up my idea of graduation, followed by law school, followed by a few years fighting the good fight for the ACLU, followed by a respectible private-practice career with a cozy salary, a cozy house, and a cozy family. Should you ever find me on the cover of a Hallmark card, sell your investments in that company immediately, for the end truly must be near.
...and if you don't like it, you can suck on an egg.
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
(Its the performer in me...)I would love to hear more about your conversations with Stacy and expand on your meetings with her.....
IT'S GOOD!
allison
A whisper and a chill
adv2005
"Why do I bother?"
The 11th Commandment.
"Whatever"
PETITION TO STOP THE BAN OF SMOKING IN BARS IN THE UNITED STATES....Anyone?