Dearest James I always spelled John.

A year now has passed. Yes indeed,

12 months

52 weeks

365 days

8765 hours & lastly, if one was to count down to the last minute, they’d find that they’d counted 525948 minutes in all. All these calculations exact, never changing. These calculations nothing in comparison to the often fluctuating state I commonly found my heart in. In a years time, I have written out 21 pieces. 22, if we were to count this.

All these numbers, are starting to make my head spin, I could only imagine the thoughts in your head of the necessity of their spoken existence. What does this mean to you? Probably nothing, since you’ve stop reading past 8. Being that was the last I sent you.

In all my years worth of observations I’ve translated into these 21 short stories. I never wrote an apology for all that this has become. The life I’ve given to this experience on paperback as well as online. Ever so often, I pander about the fairness of this, of me writing. Everything so out there for anyone to read. Sincerely and honestly I apologize. For I’ve only known you to be private and keep to yourself.  Though in all fairness I also ask that you take into account for everyone else also in this very predicament and the clarity this book and pieces will allow them. The healing and comfort they will take refuge in that they are not alone. Just mistaken as I found myself about the outcome of this ‘relationship’, one whose destiny you’d set in stone.

Thank you for the lifelong lesson I’ve now acquired through all the silence you’ve given me to clearly hear my own thoughts. But don’t be mistaken. These pieces labeled with your name have nothing to do with you, but I. Every piece compromised of every bit of my own memory, interaction, experiences and evaluations.

This last piece, labeled with your name just as you once jokingly requested I use. At the time I chuckled, mostly because I thought it was cute you suggested it. In trade of my smirk, instead I wished I told you that truthfully I had opted not to use your name because I didn’t know you.  Everything written was my own observation of you from a distance, all which I’d gathered was in reflection of all I learned about you. The name I’d assigned as your alias, fake. Unlike this ending of everything as real, honest and candid as this long ago afternoon fling.

 

 

 

Dear John who’s name was never John,

I feel my heart heavier than the coal stuffed in the Christmas stockings of children who’d misbehaved. I too, not decently mannered. Telling lies inadvertently through sin of omission and writing stories neither in full agreement or alignment of my real life.

Then, the past, no longer in alliance with my feelings today, right now, in present.

I, reading back pieces no longer attached or emotionally disturbed in regards to that of which has fallen out of my hands control. As a writer I have made my readers a promise that I will always be honest, even at the cost of my own reputable reputation. So that said, admittedly I must say, I still have very intense and deep sorrows over what seems to have been just yesterday spilled milk. Almost a year later, and the most fitting and comparable analogy I can think of, is one where I compare my once, very intense pain and emotions to that of a healed scar. Still visibly surfaced, just in no degree as painful as the initial wound.

One where the trauma of the fall is now but a faded memory I chose to push back in my memories reserve of a time not too long ago, where I was in some what good standing with you. One where that of my good standing, as short-lived as this very experience.

Oh John, I wonder if you realize how much you or this has taught me? Often late, I wonder if it was you or the experience that has taught me more?

With all fairness of all the time I have imputed in contemplation of this series of unfortunate events, I can honestly say it is both. All your mannerisms subdued and in small doses of genuineness exuding  from the far enough distance you always kept from me.

While in said contemplation, thoughts of all I have barred and burdened you with additionally working in alliance to flood my head. Making my heart bleed out in pain. Filling my soul with an empty feelings and sorriness. My soul, ah yes, empty. No longer am I holding knowledge of what or who has previously filled the contents of it with love or in this case, much like.

I now, still alone but not so much confused. Instead I’ve grown and now I can say I understand how and why all that has unfolded in the manner it has. For I always wished it different from what it’s become. Still now and again finding myself upset shedding tears in cause of the discomfort I’d unknowingly in real-time caused you. Constantly replaying all of it in my head.

Atlas, with almost a year marked on the calendar, my heart unchanged in feeling. Yet everything around me different, the time, date and most noticeably, you. You no longer around and I, well I’ve been here, typing this story. The year has aged me and forcing on growth, just as the flowers in the garden in which I most vividly recall from that one afternoon all the way back just last July.

Judgement Day

Who are you John? Who is this person people have described you to be? Why do people keep piling all this shit on my lap. The more I move away, the more shit piles on my lap from things people feel I should know.

All about you. You, who I can no longer defend, no longer am I certain who you are. All this time I’ve defended everything I thought of you to be. But nothing of which matches the description of what and who people say you are. I question the purposefulness of my book in essence of my current emotional standing.

I’ve never been more repulsed by accusations as I have by those descriptions of your encounters. Finally, John. The time has come that the pile has surpassed the height of my head. Overwhelmed and most least informed I can no longer defend you. You. Defenseless. Giving everyone but I all the time in the world. Me, the only one working to defend your case. I, different yet the same from every other. I am no longer mad at you but at myself. For all of which separated me from them should have been the word ‘no’. I should have said no, but I,  just as they, am no different.

Every time I end my series, I’m compelled to reargue and dispute all the facts. For not just you but to fairly allow my audience, the readers a more clear objectiveness. One in which no bias is swayed by my own pronouns.

 

So I will allow them to decide just as I have.  For your actions have trumped any nice words I’ve ever spoken in defense of your character.

                                    For what I hope but can’t promise will be my last Goodbye John….

 

Easy Come, Easy Go

I hadn’t remembered his words: ” Not interested in a relationship.”

To be fair, I hadn’t known those same words also spelled “Easy come, easy go”. That’s what I was after all, wasn’t I. Easy.

– Rebecca Harper ‘ Dear John who’s name wasn’t John’

Those same words that formulated that sentence are additionally ones applicable in any man-man, woman-man, woman- woman relationship, nine out of ten of the times.  He, John wasn’t any different then those very same who collectively were representative of that very statistic. A statistic that is more of what we assume to be an old wives’ tale, about the judgment casted on those who are “easy”. John, not born infallible to human error as none of us are. He too, also cliched by cliches.

I never did really get an answer as to why he and I stopped speaking. I mean to say I have no clue, would be ludicrous or dishonest. So, then I’ll put it in these words. I am very much conscious of the handful of contributing factors to the hindering of any and all feasible open ended relationship prospects my mind had innocently wandered about late at night in the early am hours.

Little to his knowledge, any perceivably irrational actions or text on my end was in no reflection of me. But rather because most if not all were what was advised from those I had shared in my dilemmas with; being I hadn’t had my own experience to reference to or draw from. Of course he doesn’t know this. One of my regrettable decisions for I’d be able to stomach that it was solely in cause of my own actions that he’d not liked me but it is indeed ironically in cause of the bits, parts and pieces of others, he’d disliked me and politely asked if he may distance from me. Now I find myself in the very predicament I once feared previous to seeking counsel.  So, then was it me he wasn’t interested in, or this person he’d blindly allowed to facilitate his heart and brains filter of projected assumptions of who he’d mistakenly thought I was?

I thought he’d known I was different. That I, unlike his past and other summer casual causalities, also too, not born infallible. Me, for my first time this summer, acting out of character. Ironically and perceivable only now labeled and judged as one with no moral compass. Ironic, he too was no different, engaging in the same very spontaneous irrational desire that we’d be both conjunctly had seeked fulfillment in that one July afternoon. One more than anything I’d wish away in trade of friendship.

Regardless, it all goes back to one thing I’d always heard about but never in my wildest of dreams think I’d have to personally recall. ” Easy come, easy go”. So, he came, and me, I went.

The Fifteenth Draft

I feel like he wasn’t even real. That’s how distant and faint the memory of him is”

– 2:39 am via whatsapp

First days pass, now weeks and months as fast as these days marked on my hearts calendar. No one but me subconsciously keeping track. I’ve never felt so hollow and transparent as I do these days. My heart on my sleeve and a big smile on my face, with jokes that leave my mouth in loud whispers as I distract everyone with humor and sarcasm. No one suspicious because I sit and fake a smile as I giggle loudly unlike him; Who’d I remembered had told me back in December he was incapable of doing.

As I sit and soak in my sadness, I realize I am no longer inspired. Now with fifteen unfinished drafts. Some titled with a piece written , others with pieces left untitled. I await to finish, conclude and move on from this series, and  in my real life. But so it seems these emotions have tangled me in a string of knots ones representative of inquires left open ended and undone. As I piece together these last final pieces in the series.

With all this time now elapsed I mix emotions, reasoning and details. All which I promised myself I’d make every effort to preserve with the intention of truthfully and honestly writing this book. One which many would argue I shouldn’t even write because you don’t deserve this. These pieces of me written down and exposed. None, really about you, but about me and what I feel, think and need.

Setting the record straight

Back from break, already I’ve encountered the awkwardness I’d earlier anticipated.  Immediately,  my own words were read through my own monologue in my head. No actual words escaping my mouth, as screams from my inside contributed to the throbbing of my migraine.

It wasn’t until later, the week before last, that I’d been approached and confronted. Indirectly through you. Your own words repeated, but none of which I can truly confirm have left your own mouth. Passing through your lips translating and reflecting what was explained to be your own pain. One which now, I’ve learned I’d inflicted.

It’s interesting to me that all of which this has become, became all in cause of one individuals lack of communication. Communication he’d deemed unnecessary and unwarranted to me and to others who have too crossed paths with him.

Her hurt unimaginably unfathomable to me not so much so that I am unsympathetic,  as I had expressed to her, I am more-so  confused. For any and all of anything I’d said in her absence was spoken to her directly.  I find it comical that she  believes I’ve shot the first round of fire, when indeed she had. Acting as though we’d not shared a friendship, one I’d believe but simultaneously known hadn’t been genuine.

In objectively contemplating on all which has taken place. I realized that she couldn’t have possibly seen I’d been genuine. How can one do so, when all they’d reciprocated had been disingenuous?

Presumably according to your actions, one can fairly assume you had mistaken me for gullible. Thinking just because I hadn’t called you out to account for your actions in-time, that you’d pulled the wool over my eyes. Ironically, though while in great effort and attempt to do so, you’d been convinced that I had been motivated with such said same intent. At least that’s what I recall you had mentioned he’d said.

In the absence of his presence, she’d giggled and laughed with me like a little school girl. Free willed and unfiltered, even then, I’d felt she hadn’t truly been fully comfortable. Maybe because we’d shared similar experiences, ones in my opinion she had yet to forego, she didn’t feel she can let her guard down. Which I found odd, being I hadn’t seeked out the commonalty in our friendship. In fact, it seemed in the course of just two months time, encounters I’d had no idea others had shared, too had been piling on my lap. All whilst I sat and absorbed most of it. Piecing what I’d known to be fact from that of what I accepted to be distorted truths.

All these things I’d never told him but he must of figured I was unaware of. All I refrained from telling him, because she as well as others had trusted in me, leaving me burdened with their confidence. Though as you read in the piece before last ” Stone Cold”, that’s where we differed.  She, he,  they  and I. 

 

Not my kind

I’m not yours, and you aren’t mine. But we knew this before anything happened. Which I assume is why people question the necessity of us, of this.

Mistakenly, I had thought you and I were so different, when we were really much alike. I was wrong, I  don’t know you. You just as others out there, thinking they know me because all I reveal, leads you to believe nothing is left for you to know.

But your wrong. I never stay the same person for too long. For I am objective and most critical in my own critics. Causing me to be ever-evolving. Whatever it is you think you’ve figured out, you should re-evaluate. As I too, have done with you. All your own words, never followed through with actions. Causing me to become confused.

Leading me to believe you are dishonest. When indeed, I know you are not.

But I, just as anyone have learned often do our own ears decieve us. Where as our eyes will never. For ” Seeing is believing” and you never gave me much to look at.