bluewintermoons

[bluewintermoons]

rarities.

November 19, 2015

I did something stupid today. A melancholy has taken over, carried me away since Mr. Myshkin left town. I wandered the city, trailing where we'd gone together. I rode the subways until midnight, looking for him, grasping for his starry, sweet shadows. The skies were getting pink early now. All dusk I watched mimosa colours - lava, pearl, pomegranate.

There is something inside me I can't fix. It has been there before him, sure. But his absence only exacerbates the hollow core, the black moon tides. He is the only benevolent man in my life, my dear Mr. M.

I don't care what you think. If you think I care about him too much, depend on him too much. I only want to get closer to the feeling. The gold, silk heart of his. The dreamer mind. This type of person. This rarity among the crowds.

Leaving his touch on the edge of my heart.

Oh, where have you gone? Have you gone so far from me?

Don't give that to her. YOU REMEMBER MY WORDS.

The days are long and I do not sleep. I try and I know he will return, but waiting hurts. And I won't ever tell him. His touch, whispers, my body. I dress beautiful. How he likes me dressed. In my white long coat. My hair is kept straight. Red lips, boots, black leather. I try to look better with every day. I try to be everything he wants. So that he feels my intentions. A shockwave is sent into the air. And he appears.

But here I am. The glass shatters. I am floating along. The waves come and go. They teach me how to get to the edge of the night. A calm, beautiful child-like victim. Goodbyes are not goodbyes, never goodbyes.

What can be said about a life devoured? Perception split in two - two tones, two solitudes. Beauty and sadness. Bliss and blues. I like to listen to the music he listens to. I go to bars where jazz plays. I stay alone, remain unapproachable. A loner. My father calls. My sister calls. But I am somewhere else entirely. And I am failing most of my classes - Biology, History, French lit.

We are reading Flaubert. I think Sentimental Education will be my favourite book. I have not finished it yet, but I have a good feeling. I feel for this fellow, Frédéric M. We are right there together. Our dreams, our ambitions, our longing for true love are all perhaps too immense, too bold in our blood, too innate and carved into our lonely hearts. I hope things will end well for Fred. Maybe if things end well for him, they can end well for me too.

And this is why I try to understand and still cannot understand myself. Things are as they always were. I am still the girl Mr. M molded with his sculptor's hands. I was loved, cradled, studied with tenderness and precision. Everything is as it was. So why do I feel this terrible dread? As if at any moment, everything will be gone?

I am happy to surrender at the feet of my dying girlhood. I don't wish to return to where it started. I want to let go of the clumsiness, the crudeness and be all that he has taught me to be. Because like Fred I am too good at feeling sorry for myself. How harshly I judge the world, the one I so desperately want to belong in... I want to sever ties with this little girl. I want to move away from her nasty, destructive patterns. But she roams wild. She has these impossible dreams, visions. A little lynx, wide-eyed and watching, warning me not to let her go. She asks me to be patient with her. There is some secret. I have to pretend it is worthwhile to wait, to go on, unknowing.

I walked home in the rain. My jacket, hair were soaked, and my eyeliner was running. I looked terrible, like a sad, frightened clown. My swan pendant was tangled in my hair. I showered immediately and then watched a movie to get into the writing mood.

My French professor granted me an extension. I hadn't managed to turn anything in all semester. But from what I'd said in class, she thought I was "bright" and "capable of producing good work." My ideas were "worth exploring." Of course, I knew I had interesting ideas. My life was all dreams and ideas and ruins and loves and street lamps. Literature is in my bones. Why should I need to prove myself to some know-it-all at a small liberal arts college? Mr. Myshkin was my greatest teacher. I could not wait for him to return to tell him about Frédéric.

My Mr. Myshkin was a scholar, an aristocrat. And in all honesty, he would not be too happy to know I was failing my classes. Last year, I had gotten straight As and one B. I don't say this to brag, but to illustrate how easy it would be for me to turn it around. I like to see how bad I can make things, and how much effort it would take to change them. An experiment.

But before I started writing my paper, I decided to write Mr. Myshkin an email. I write him emails all the time and never send them. If I sent them, I would be betraying our unspoken deal.

Maybe I will share my emails with you. I haven't decided yet. But I am getting tired, and I've said enough for now.

— Ly🤍