The pattern begins its weave, here. With uninterested, disinterested emails. Askew from your whip- cracking words. Sometimes languidly long, sometimes stunningly short but smarting sweet. Now they lack a peculiar flavour, so uniquely yours. The flamboyant character and that zest. Your sense of humour, the charm that oozed so, it could make me forget the need for knees.
And, perhaps there it is. Usually the answers are in the questions themselves. And isn’t writing a wonderful medium of therapy, self-awareness and catharsis?
I began by saying I think Iâve done you in with my âover-the-top-nessâ. All that I wrote about âfalling in loveâ and âbeing in some state of lovingâ. All I did was write; write so blindly tip-tapping on the keyboard quicker than my mind was thinking thoughts. Or maybe it was the alarming frequency and length of the letters. Itâs a relevant possibility to me, one who knows (having been here far too many times to recognise) the familiarity of my too-muchness.
There could be needs of mine. Needs that need fulfilment. Needs nestled so deep within me that even I am unaware of them. Maybe it’s the right place right time theory. If the paths of the two cross and even a slight current of connection is made, it is enough to spread like a fever. I can latch on like a leech. And if that is what this is, it wouldn’t have been the first time.
Immaturity resurfaces, unravelling its outpour a windfall of feeling, leaving behind me a trail of incomplete, inadequate communication. I see this ‘me’. If I take a step back and watch myself there. And it’s not funny to see yourself desperately clutching in a childâs way. It isn’t funny. Anymore.
This is where I return to the slippery beginning. And it’s been like that with you too, hasnât it? Too much too soon that can never be good.