I’m not a jealous person. I wasn’t jealous before, except for 2019. 2019 struck me down with a hand that I could not avoid. I’ve been dealing with this inside of me, and what better way to deliver the gospel message of catharsis, than by writing.
I still hate Fountain Square. For all the reasons she loves it, I hate it, and yet, you got me, this is another break up post. But one that reflects on jealous for a moment.
Why am I jealous?
Because it’s hard to compare myself to the past, whether mistakes or not, they are following along a timeline that I am not a part of. It’s the abusive husband that wanted her to have a kid, it’s the chain smoking, beer drinking, bad father that she complained about, and then there’s me. The mid 30’s intellectual, two divorces, and no kids, but I don’t get to feel her affection, or “feelings” because they would be “forced”. Those guys get to be with her as friends, compatriots, and tied together as a parent, and I can’t even have one child, nor even a sexual conquest that leads to the mistakes that they talk about.
Oh, but don’t judge, you don’t know. Of course I don’t know! That makes me jealous. He got to know her, he got to have a child, and now as they grow he neglects the kid, the other dad is ok, but he also has major flaws. Then there’s me, I feel good about myself, “you did nothing wrong”, and yet here I am jealous.
“I know you can’t hear me, and you won’t believe me, but there’s something I must say before I fade away…”
This is the last I’ll probably write about her. She doesn’t even think about me, or so it was too unfair of a question to ask her, I remember. “That’s unfair to ask,” so I backed down. I didn’t ask further, but I still dwell on so many things said, and here it is, my last paper boat. This boat I told her we were going to float on, and now she’s the captain as I’m at sea, adrift, in doldrums, quiet, jealous, and wishing I was the bad guy.
The bad guy. The guy that my mother and father told me NOT to be. He’s the guy that gets the girl I wanted. She’s intelligent, beautiful, and full of sparks that set my world on fire, and yet I have to say hello to the bad guy. That guy is the one that may have problems, but he’s tied to her forever, like an anchor. Even if she shook him, even if she wanted to leave him behind, she has a forever memory in her children of him, of her times together, of their union, of their symbiotic connection that I was not allowed to have.
So now what? Let the strong man take away my opportunity? The thief in the night comes through and gets what I want? Not really. It’s clear to me, I’m left alone.
Being esoteric means being alone.
I am alone.
You may disagree, you may read this and denounce the notion, but you’re not the one that is singing along, “Forever we will be hollow, hollow again”.