I sincerely hope someday you learn to see.
You’re a bad person. You’re toxic and selfish. But so am I. But the difference is that I know that about myself. You, however, live under the delusion that you’re a good person. You pretend that what you do and have done is OK.
And your mistress is the same. She’s no better than you. You deserve each other. Only two fools could live in the delusional utopia where you think that love is some guiding light.
But real love — the best love — is a love in which people are challenged, pushed to their limits, and forced to realize who they really are. At least I can say you did that for me.
You cannot say the same about me, because you didn’t want such a challenge. You were happy to live complacent in a world where complacency gets people nowhere.
You can keep deluding yourself into thinking that you won some sort of prize with her, but you didn’t. You just found a little girl who’s content to live in a swamp with you. A person too dumb to realize that there’s an ocean out there. A child too unrealistic to know that one needs to be a shark to live and thrive and flourish.
Being in contact with you again was a bad idea. It was a reminder of the pain you caused; theincessant betrayal upon betrayal that you felt entitled to cause. You aren’t entitled to hurt me or stifle me. I was forced to recall that you’re not just an anchor in my ocean but a third leg that cripples me. Humans aren’t built to run with three legs; it gets them nowhere.
I have lived my life void of necessity. I don’t need someone to complete me. I don’t need to be in love to be whole. But in falling in love with you was a setback. I was confused and forgot myself and my convictions. I put faith in an illusion, in a man who was false in his intentions and not strong enough to stand on his own two feet.
You, on your own, have a third leg. That’s why you’re nowhere. You carry in that third leg the delusion that your mother instilled in you. In that third leg, you carry the weight of a broken man who lacks gumption and initiative.
You have no backbone. You have no killer instinct. To be a killer in an ocean of sharks is OK, my love. But I guess no one ever told you that.
You can pretend your day has come, but it hasn’t. Your heyday is long gone, my friend. No one wants to buy an album by an old man who sacrificed his talent for wasted love and a predilection toward fantasy and the abstract that doesn’t exist in this realm.
As I said before (and have written about endlessly), being in love with you was refreshing and brand new. But what I realized in loving you is that living on a cloud is pretty for the moment, but it’s not real life. Wanting to create something out of a dream is gorgeous but you can’t float forever and, at some point, you need to learn to swim.