Sunday, December 22, 2002

I've been writing back and forth with a friend, the kind of friend you let your guard down with. I've been accused of being insincere in my use of irony, and it's true, to an extent. There is a part of me where the men are men, the prose is purple, and metaphors run wild across the landscape. I have read self-help books and wished I could be more actualized. Yeah, when I say cheesy shit, I say it with a wink and a nod so I can pretend I'm just kidding, but I'm really not, not down deep. So, in the spirit of authenticity (and of Christmas), here's the latest letter in our correspondence. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Anger's been a trap for me in the past, so I've avoided it with all my spirit, which is another kind of trap. Now that I let the anger into the light, I find the monster much less terrifying, though it is a persistent fear.

The armor of love protected me from everything I feared for a very long time, and when that armor was taken away (or, at least, a significant chink revealed), the fears came back, redoubled at my weakness. I fought them with everything I had, but eventually I got tired of fighting, having found my fears a hydra that sprout two heads for every one I cut off. I stepped back, let drop my weapons, and felt my armor fall away from my skin. The monsters moved in, but as they attacked, I found them as intangible as the threats that dripped from their mouths like drool. They were but phantoms of my fear.

The prophets say fear is but a forgetting, that only love is real. Perhaps that's true, and if so, that explains it. Maybe God is holding me in the palm of her hand. Or maybe, just maybe, the phantoms of the mind can only attack the mind, and my mind is strong, having faced more powerful demons conjured by pain, death, acid, and math analysis.

I know that I am still in love with Carrie, and that when she was in love with me, I felt a comfort and a happiness that I haven't felt since. That doesn't mean I'll never feel it again, with her, or with someone else. I might. That doesn't mean I won't find a new love that makes this one look like a high school crush. I might. And that doesn't mean that there aren't nights when I sit on my front porch and see the moonlight arcing over the trees like a song, with the stars whispering their accompaniment in the cold, while my soul sings silently along, and my heart taps its toe to the beat. There are.

In other words, I'm doing okay.

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