I have been thinking about him a lot lately.
I always thought of myself as a lover of campground rules. A campground rules lover. I made so very many efforts to, at the very least, leave them better than I found them.
I called and I communicated and I made it my mission to, at the very least NOT be the dick.
Hey, if we all behave well and are kind then even the inevitable pain of a ruined romance will mend, and friendship will prevail.
This was not, ofcourse, though, always me. And when I ponder the curious withholding, the confusing mindgames people play, I am, of course, horribly dishonest if I don't think of him. Of him, and me. Of him and me.
I was, in retrospect, so very clearly in love. But I wanted something else, some other kind of love, or some other kind of me. And so I couldn't reconcile, because if I called it love, well then, I called the game, and I wasn't nearly clear enough on the score. Not yet.
Sometimes I wish I could go back and change what a tremendous ass I was. In it, drowning, but unable to even say those three words. Playing, and scared to be me and understand what I felt for what it was and not some horrible metaphor for every other thing I was working on.
And so I think of him. And the amazing person he has become, and the seed I can never plant in the past that would make me anything other than the curious headfuck I must have been, to a person who was so far past what I even now have become.
You can't do much about it.
But still, the thoughts, they are there.