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.