You knew me when I played at being someone other than who I am.
You knew me when I believed that I could be whomever I wanted to be.
But now, I am tired and old, and I have resigned myself, like everyone else does, to being who I am.
If you could look upon my childhood, and know of my home life, and the kinds of people my parents were, and the genes I inherited, you would see what I am saying.
I am no artist, no mathematician either. All of my creative urges came from a desire to please. Once this desire was removed (and it was decimated from years of seeing clearly that I did NOT please), the only creative urges that remained were ones of catharsis–stuff to be made for my eyes only.
You saw the real me one evening when you stopped by my place, and I was emptied of all my bullshit. You said yourself you wouldn’t like me in a million years if you knew that was the real me. And so, I hid him, and went back to playing the part of a foolish dilettante who pretended that he had more money and looks than he really did (and could therefore afford such inordinate behavior).
You left, and the world around me laughed at my ways for a few more years, and suddenly, it didn’t. Crickets. It just wasn’t acceptable, seemly, or right for a man pushing thirty-five who looked to be ten years older than that to be such a jackass when it was clear he had no fortune to back up his bad behavior.
Yet, you would pop back into my life at random, mostly inconvenient times and make me feel guilty for being me. You would chide me for not being more of a friend, as if you were really being a true friend yourself. Your friendship was hyperconditional, though you expected everyone around you to love you and your ways unconditionally. Maybe a saint could love you like that, and I think you might have stolen a few saints away from their husbands and wrecked their lives, if not their souls, but probably their souls, too.