I May Be Out of Love

My head is messy and cluttered and today I was writing in my journal to find some peace, to set free some of the more persistent, nagging, questions and musings that plague me of late. I was writing and writing. Writing around things, writing a lot of things but the things that it would help me to write about. Writing and writing and writing along. And then I stumbled upon a strange patch of calm. A strange, surprising sort of calm. Inside that calm there was a thought. A strange surprsing sort of thought. Inside the storm and chaos, the fears and doubt – there was a kernal of something oddly solid, oddly solacing.

I don’t think that I love him anymore.

It was sad too. And because it is so stormy, so chaotic, so awful inside my head right now, I don’t entirely trust this thought. I feel it. I sense the calm that’s wrapped around it. But, I can’t know for sure that it’s true. I’ve never been very good at absolutes. I’ve never been good at being certain that I know anything about anything about how I feel. I doubt. I wonder. I question.

It’s partly how I got in this mess in the first place.

And, now, some neutral self at the centre of my storm has whispered to me that I no longer want to even try to build a life with this man. It may well be a life-long sentence to solitude. He may yet become a man I want to be with and if I don’t give him that chance I may well live a life-long solitude. Part of me is okay with that. Another part is terrified. But, if I really don’t love him anymore then there isn’t a choice. There isn’t a way back. There is no way to reason around being out of love.

I’ve never thought that “in love” lasted long – the crazy delirious part – but there is supposed to be something special. Something that exists between you two that is yours and yours alone together. A desire to be each other’s first. To turn to each other first for a laugh, a shoulder, for sex, a sounding board. It’s not always going to be magic and dewey and wonderful. There will be fights. There will be days you let each other down. But you still choose each other. You still choose each other first. You find your way back because it’s where you feel most comfortable, most yourself.

And the thing of it is, I don’t think we ever did really turn to each other. Neither him nor me. And so much time is gone and so many opportunities wasted and there is little malice and much less real anger at the centre of the storm than I thought there was because what’s there is just simply that I am done. I believe as far at it is in my power to believe anything with any kind of certainty – that I am done.

That I am out of love.

I suppose, though, that we shall see what we shall see.