Why I Write What I Write, Part II: Weird, Artsy Montage
I see them before me. Each one I love differently, but unconditionally. Even the ones that now I avoid.
Perhaps “am learning to forgive” is a better choice of words. But nonetheless:
The one that hurt me—more and more often than any other in this life. But he was like a child, and I a nurturer. I practically raised him, though he was already eighteen when we met. I don’t really write about him any more. But I did. Omission from this list would perpetrate a lie.
The one that betrayed me, with one act of selfishness that I always knew was coming. Yet there were lessons—as the frog learned of the scorpion.
The ones I would never avoid. Probably because they never hurt me in that way. Because they never had the chance? Not a question to be answered. I have ached in other ways.
The one that came first. Just a boy. Always a friend. Now gone.
The one that stuck around. The words keep coming, and they’re different every time.
The one that was consistent—but whose other lives kept me wary. It was only because heart thievery was a quiet possibility.
The one that was a surprise. Well, one good shock deserves another. And now there are words I never dreamed would come from me.
And then, the one I do not write about. He loves in a way I do not understand. I love him back as best I can.
Perhaps “am learning to forgive” is a better choice of words. But nonetheless:
The one that hurt me—more and more often than any other in this life. But he was like a child, and I a nurturer. I practically raised him, though he was already eighteen when we met. I don’t really write about him any more. But I did. Omission from this list would perpetrate a lie.
The one that betrayed me, with one act of selfishness that I always knew was coming. Yet there were lessons—as the frog learned of the scorpion.
The ones I would never avoid. Probably because they never hurt me in that way. Because they never had the chance? Not a question to be answered. I have ached in other ways.
The one that came first. Just a boy. Always a friend. Now gone.
The one that stuck around. The words keep coming, and they’re different every time.
The one that was consistent—but whose other lives kept me wary. It was only because heart thievery was a quiet possibility.
The one that was a surprise. Well, one good shock deserves another. And now there are words I never dreamed would come from me.
And then, the one I do not write about. He loves in a way I do not understand. I love him back as best I can.
Labels: ask Jill, exes and ineffables, on writing
posted by Jill at
4/08/2006 02:36:00 PM
15 Comments:
Poetry. Let me print this.
If I could write of all of them that left an imprint, I would.
By
Janet, At
4/08/2006 05:56:00 PM
Love it. Thanks for my fix, Jill.
By
The Grunt, At
4/08/2006 09:04:00 PM
This post moved me. A lot.
I'd like to read about the one who was a surprise, and the one you do not write about, which you will not, of course.
By
ChickyBabe, At
4/09/2006 02:35:00 AM
The heart is a magnificent thing, is it not? A muscle that keeps us alive and at the same time it is the seat of all emotion.
Yes Science tells us it's the brain where all of these things occur, but then why does our chest ache so?
We feel not with our brain but with our gut, our tightened chest and our dry mouth.
To love, is to be human. We need it, we crave it, we are all addicted. May love find you sweet Jill so that you can share with us it's beauty...
By
trueborn, At
4/09/2006 03:16:00 AM
And the one you never knew about, loving from a distance, never daring to take that step?
Sure there's one of those out there too.
By
Faltenin, At
4/09/2006 03:25:00 AM
Interesting post. I guess none of us can help secretly loving the people we were once in love with, however much they hurt us and however awful the break up.
By
emma, At
4/09/2006 05:34:00 AM
Thanks, Janet. I can't say that this would be considered all who left an imprint... It's more like the most well-defined footprints in the sand.
And thanks for reading, Grunt.
Well, CB, you've already read quite a bit whether or not you know it, but there were will more coming, I am sure. But you're right about the one I do not write about.
Ah, Trueborn, a poet always.
I know not, Faltenin, but there's room enough in my heart for him as well. Especially since I know what it is like to love that way.
I can't help it, and I try not to want so much to resist it. Sometimes that's difficult, though. Thanks for the visit, Emma.
By
Jill, At
4/09/2006 01:13:00 PM
'Such beautiful words. I forgot I was reading about pain and loss.
By
peefer, At
4/09/2006 06:04:00 PM
That last bit about love hits home the hardest, Jill. I feel like I'm on both sides of that coin. I want to completely open myself, but, having been burned in the past, I hesitate. And fumble my way through what I hope is the right thing to do. I don't suppose I'll know until that final trumpet sounds, though, will I?
Thank you, Jill, for writing so beautifully and sharing it with us.
By
Network Geek, At
4/09/2006 07:16:00 PM
Thank you Peefer, but only one here is a true tragedy, so the misunderstandings and emotional intrigue and broken hearts and such are gifts by comparison. I hope what people mostly read here is great fortune and a lot of love.
It is my pleasure, Geek. I am glad to be appreciated. Just keep on fumbling along. The only mistake would be not to play.
By
Jill, At
4/09/2006 07:44:00 PM
(there are things worth remembering)
By
Popeye, At
4/09/2006 10:01:00 PM
"And then, the one I do not write about. He loves in a way I do not understand. I love him back as best I can."
Very cute.
By
DIAMONDKT, At
4/09/2006 10:05:00 PM
from all those post about writing out there, i think you summed it up perfect, nicely and beautifully.
By
treespotter, At
4/10/2006 07:39:00 AM
Oh that last one is a killer. To understand the other's love. The reasons, why, how, where for art thou sweet Juliet. Never wish for the understanding. It would ruin it.
By
lil'bitty, At
4/10/2006 10:08:00 AM
I read your words and I hear music un-written.
By
Dustin, At
4/10/2006 11:48:00 AM
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