Hopefully; A Final Lament

I hate waking up in this bed, this bed where I have spent so many sad nights. The summer sun rises early and shines through my East-bound window, waking me from whatever solace I could have had in sleep. The difference now is five years, and now it is time to look away. The foot lingering in the doorway to walk away, another place in my life to go to. I suppose I knew it would happen, but... as you said yourself, life and love are funny that way-- you never do ever fully turn away completely now, do you? But the good news is that I have already tasted the future. It is on the rise as the shadows on my bedroom floor slowly creep West. Oh god how I want to look back! But again, like some bleeding Orpheus ascending out of some dark Hades, I must kill, forget, and leave for dead. Let it die. Hide it under a blanket. Pretend it was all nothing. Lull it to sleep.

I don't know if I can return. Memories are just such powerful things. I think way too much, read way too much into everything. "You're not oppressed, you're just too learned." Sure, I guess. I am stuck in the hyperreal. Nonetheless, I ache, tortured by my mind, a woman broken. And after all is said and done, I know I will always walk away trailing blood-- you uncaring, oblivious or both. You will never understand, you never ever understood. It was all a dream. Even more reason never to see your face, our places, this sleepy town. And so, without further ado, I bittersweetly say Good-bye, (filled, of course, with all kinds of ostentatious dramatism and post modern tragedy) and shall "take this unbound train, and go away." I'm sorry for everything, but mostly sorry for myself, for although the pain has built up for me a wall of mental will and maturity of the greatest might, it still houses a wounded heart.