Tonight I miss something that didn't ever exist, something I can't even really remember, and yet it's still keeping me awake. It's an unreal dream pieced back together from slivers of half-formed images.
The sensation resembles missing a character I played - not the idea of a person I was but a person I pretended to be. Wait, that's it entirely. I don't miss this situation or those people, I miss the person I got to imagine myself being while I was in that situation. And frankly, I cannot imagine a subsequent situation where I can return to being that person. So I remain disappointed that I cannot find a single day to day entry point to this part of me I really enjoy but cannot conjure up on my own.
It's a loss that makes me want to throw things, to whine, to rage and storm. I had a fit this evening about something quite irritating but fairly minor, and I suspect this disappointment is partly responsible. I want to find an open space and rail at the sky, call down curses and weep and generally make such a nuisance of myself that the gods themselves grant me a favor just to shut down my caterwauling.
My only defense against this inconvenient yearning for fictional situations is to measure the disappointment on a scale larger than today. Take the camera back to a wide shot, and I'll have forgotten all about this. Or so I tell myself, and so history supports.
Except that I will always miss this part of me I don't get to be anymore, until the day comes I forget I was capable of ever being that person. Will that be better, to have forgotten I was capable of something else? Or will it be better to remember her, knowing I cannot be her ever again?
I suppose it's like asking, is it better to forget how to open the door or to forget there was any way out?
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