you're not allowed to be real.

You don't have the right to know me. You don't have the right to be real.

If I write enough about you, about us, about my heart, can i make it surreal? Is it possible to actually evoke my love in a way that all can understand? If I speak enough about it, can I turn what was, what never was, about us into a story?

I keep hoping that somehow I can remove myself from you. I often wonder if it is possible that if I dedicate enough of my time, energy, emotion, and drive into it (it being us - or what was us) that it will become surreal. It's like I hope that if I think and talk about it enough that it will truly become a fable or epic saga rather than that which is or was.

I love writing on your blog. It is a way for me to speak to you without truly knowing if you are actually hearing me. These things that I feel and have share are perverse and quite sadistic [as it pertains to or is characterized by sadism; deriving pleasure from extreme cruelty]. They are not that which you should be bombarded with. It's not fair for me to call you, text you, email you, facebook you - ANYTHING "you". But the blog is the exception to the rule. It is a way that gives you a choice to hear what it is I have to say. I am free in the way in which I share on your blog because I do not know if you're reading it. And it is fair for me to write on your blog because you are the one who makes the choice to read it.

I cannot any longer be attached to you. Yesterday I put on the new york belly shirt you gave me. I was feeling silly and thought that embracing something tangeable that was you would allow me to further embrace my feelings and emotions as they related to you. Lately I have really begun to cherish the pain and anguish that I am left with. At first I believed that this trance I have been in over you was counterproductive towards my other (artistic) outlets. I have seldom written, painted, drawn, goofed around, photographed, explored, or Central Park'd. It seems as though I am in a malaise over you, over us.

It was only recently, within  day or two, that I have begun to embrace my sorrow, as if somehow doing so helps me identify with a certain clarity the fall I had over you. Somehow I feel like I am simply allowing and maybe even enjoying the sadness I am enveloped in. By remembering that it is the loss of such a great inspiration of happiness that you are which drives the sadness. Ultimately, I just remember that it hurts so much because it felt so good and right.

Perhaps more importantly, or at least as interestingly, I have come to discover that this lamenting of what is or was of us is not destructive or negative. I love winter. I think it is partially because of the sports, the snow, the holidays, the family, everything that goes along with it. I am also aware that it is partially because it is Canadian, and I embrace all that is Canadian. But I always tell people, "look, I love the winter. But even if you don't look at it this way, 'it's the winter, the bad, that makes the summer, the good, so good.'" That's how I feel about the loss, the void, the empty space that echo's only for you. This anguish is my winter. In a way, the time I had with you, the love I developed for you was and is so strong and voluptuous that it makes this current state I'm in so bitter sweet.

Your love created such a powerful hold over me that the way I feel now is like being scalded by hot water. Imagine when water flows so hot that the part of your body it touches is almost sent into shock. It is at these times that our body has trouble identifying the sensation and the signals are misinterpreted by our brains. These are the times that the water is so scalding hot that it actually kinda feels icy cold. That's how my heart feels right now. This hurt is like a fiery lava that washes over me like nothing else ever has. And it burns so brilliantly and devastatingly that it actually begins to feel cold.

That is how powerfully I love you. You were so good to me Bonita that even now in my most vulnerable and hurt, lonely and confused, rueful and sad state that I cherish how passionately I feel - and still feel about you really - over this, over us. How can something have been so good that it makes the bad feel good?

Last night when I put on the chemise (the blouse really) that you gave me it was in the attempt to use something tangible about us that would help intensify how I am feeling. My hope was that it would insspire even more of an outpouring of emotion and that I would possibly, maybe, most certainly hopefully be able to capture as much of it as I could. But as soon as the cloth passed over my nose I was sent into a tailapin; it still smelled like you.

The are classic, and sometimes even cliched, expressions that are used which convey a hightened sense of emotions. Most of the time, at least to me, they have always seemed over the top and quite an exageration. Who really looses their breath? Who's heart really skips a beat? These things never seemed real, especially not to be applicable in relation to a real person or a real relationship.

But with you they are.

You make fairtales come true. You make nightmares pierce the soul. You invade thoughts without warning or mercy. You arrest love.

Maybe if I write enough you will become a story. Maybe you can become a mere character in a life looked upon from the outside instead of felt from within.

Maybe if I just keep writing I can exponge you...