Saturday, January 24th, 2015
It's 3:40 on a snowy, misty night; I hate knowing exactly what you're doing and wondering if you're lingering in my neighborhood. I know what you're wearing, what you're thinking, who you're with. I hate that part of me wants to sit on my fire escape and watch for you, not that anything would come of such a sighting other than potentially, on one hand, extreme anxiety, and on the other hand, the peace of mind that comes from corroborated conjectures.
I'm certain you take pride in knowing that this city is more yours than it is mine. It feels now as if I will always feel, at least somewhat, like an unwanted outsider here; you know this better than almost anyone, and it frightens me that now you want to further alienate me, make me feel like a foreigner who belongs only on the city's outskirts. It scares me that you're no longer on my team, but my opposition. This could have ended amicably.
Part of me wants to flee, but I know this feeling is fleeting. In its history and at its core, New York is not sustained by its born and raised, but by those outcasts and achievers who dare to challenge the cold facades of the competitive and ostentatious. This is my home now and I'm not going anywhere, so you can come around and leave your mark outside my door, let me know you're here and I'm not welcome - I'm not leaving. Discomfort is something I can sit with, but can you?
I wish I could stop being angry with you for saying the things you said. I can rationalize your words - explain to myself that you needed to seize control and end things on your own terms to try to cope with love lost - yet I still feel angry with both you and myself. For now, I suppose I'll just feel the anger while I toss and turn in bed until the loathing exhausts me to sleep.