Fade Away

I'd pull an Alaska.  One of those days, for reasons nobody can understand and even I couldn't explain, suddenly it would all be over.  It would be on a whim and there would be nothing left.  No notes.  No letters.  I should have kept that post-it as a reference because if you don't have it, nobody will ever have access.  I just wouldn't leave it.

I'd always intend to.  I want people to know as much as possible.  But the fact remains that that's not how it would happen.  I'd start for seemingly no reason, having contemplated over and over again why not, and in the end I'd finish because it would feel like I should.  That's how all of the other things ever came about anyway.  I can think of maybe two occasions on which I did that because I specifically wanted or needed to, and countless others when the urge had passed after half an hour and I only did because I then felt obligated to because of the lead-up.

I wouldn't leave it a mystery on purpose.  It would simply end up being the case because I wouldn't have the energy after that to amend it.  I'm certain I'd remember and then not get up to do so because it would feel pointlesss or I would feel too drained.  I'd only do it if I had no other reason.  I know that much.  If there was a single thing to really stop me, I wouldn't.  I've always been pretty good about controlling myself in such situations.  But what it comes down to is that one of those mornings when I would have no really good reason to say no, I all of a sudden just wouldn't, and that would be it. 

Part of me wants to spend the entirety of the summer sitting on the floor putting together puzzles, no real reasons for it, no obligation to finish anything or start something else.  Just slowly, steadily working with pieces of cardboard in my hands, not needing to get anywhere, but ultimately accomplishing some small, mildly satisfying goal.  I would be happy with success like that.  It would be enough.  I wouldn't have to think but I could do all the thinking I needed.  I would be by myself but I wouldn't need any company.  And maybe it's just the mood I'm currently in, but that seems like just about the best summer I could really want at present.

I don't need a therapist.  I wouldn't say anything.  Not anything near the sorts of things I write, anyway.  Writing is my therapy.  It gets the messes out of my system and leaves them out on display.  I know enough science and I know enough of myself to make some form of sense of the jumbled words I throw down to express each though.  That's more than I'd ever allow any therapist to do.  Because even when I do want to let someone particularly close, I don't.  I can't.  I do it all through writing.  If you want to know me, to understand me, to make any semblance of sense out of me, read my writing.  It'll show you things I never will in person, no matter how much I may want to.