Stupid immature prick! That’s what I should have called him, a stupid immature prick. Maybe not stupid, but immature and prick, definitely. Instead I went on and on about loyalty and betrayal; how he had broken something between us, an invisible cord, thin and thready, the only thing holding us together. Now there was nothing, only the realization that we had lost whatever we had, lost it in the abyss of things that could never be unsaid, undone.
Mutua always says anger and bitterness are like a poison, wasting away your body as you watch and wait for it to kill your enemy. But what does Mutua know anyway? He is old, an old man, and way beyond his time. Maybe things were as he says in his day, but things have changed, dynamics are different, today people act differently, relate differently, Mutua himself acknowledges the fact that these are different times, he has no right invading my thoughts, putting words in my head, beautiful words by which his whole existence makes sense.
Anyway, I should give it some time, maybe he’ll call, talk to me, explain himself, or better yet apologize. But then again my expectations will once again leave me staring at the wide gap between them and reality. Expectation and reality are always worlds apart; I hear Mutua’s words in my head again. I hate that the old man’s words are always around me, I should have been more cautious, I shouldn't have let him fill my head with his nonsense teachings. Anyway, I don’t think my expectations will be met, they’ll probably stand there like a lonely lover on a dimly lit corner, waiting, waiting to be met, to be validated, but reality will not come, and maybe my expectations too will be as frustrated with reality and maybe they too will think of reality as a stupid immature prick; I guess that’s just how life is, a barrage of immature pricks waving, winking, saying, smiling, as you wait for Mister Right to come riding his white horse of expectation, which will never come.
Maybe I’m overreacting, overanalyzing. I’ve been called overdramatic before; then again, me? Overdramatic? I’m the victim here! Mutua would…. There go the old man’s words again! What’s with old people and thinking they know so much anyway? Entitlement issues, that’s what it is. You live long enough and at some point you will think that the world owes you something. You think it’s the world’s fault that you have milky cataracts in your eyes, or that you lost all your teeth, or that your back doesn't stand straight anymore. Or that you lost the flawless features on your face and now the furrows on your brow stand strong, valleys deep enough to swallow worry and concern and leave you in a state of perpetual peace and seeming wisdom. It is not anyone’s fault, it is not the world’s fault that you lived this long. If you want someone to blame…. I’m getting carried away. It’s not Mutua I’m angry at.
Maybe I should call him and tell him what I think, but he will probably ignore my call. I should write him an email instead, tell him how immature he was to do what he did, tell him that I now realize that I had been wasting my time, that we were never going to be together. That I should have known right from the start, when he used the word wait more than he said my name. I should have seen it in his eyes when I noticed that they never really met with mine, that they always skirted about my face and then stayed fixed, just above my shoulder, beyond me. I should have known that his spirit was never in tandem with mine and that his was always meant for something else, someone else. Forget the email, I’m beginning to sound like Mutua. Come to think of it, what is the difference between these two? Age? Experience? How they relate to me? One is the fool I decided to give my heart to, the other is the one who saw a fool to give his heart to. But both are one thing, both are the same. It doesn't matter who they are, a failed boyfriend, a friendly grandfather, all are cut from the same cloth, both are the bane of what is wrong with the world, both are filthy beasts which I want nothing to do with, creatures I can live without, beings the world does not need; both are men.
Both fill me with angst. One takes over my heart the other my mind. My words are swallowed by want, a wanting to tell this man how he hurt me, how in his indecision my life stopped and now I can’t remember how to walk without my hand being held. My words are swallowed with feigned wisdom, borrowed genius, of a man who taught me all I know, and now I do not remember what I know, what I knew, who I am, who I was. I am caught between these two forces, and now I fall into an abyss, further and further from the truth, from who I am.
The immature prick and the old man. Antonyms, funny. Immature is old and man is prick. Sameness. A strange sameness.
Maybe I should let them be, assume that all they did was be who they knew they were. Maybe the problem is I don’t know who I am. Maybe I’m living a borrowed life. Maybe I just need to let go of both and walk my path. Learn.
Sigh, I’ll let it go. Immature prick can take his nonsense somewhere else, maybe he will learn to look into the eyes of the poor girl he charms next. Maybe she’ll wait like he wants. Maybe she’ll convince his scared heart that she can take care of it, like I couldn't.
Old man, grandpa, Mutua. Maybe I should keep this one close. Every day he sits waiting for the gracious horseman to bring with him sweet death, and though I won’t admit it, I pray the horseman takes his time, for whether I like it or not, I am him.
I am him.