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You know, it's not over. I can't just write something kind of funny, kind of sad and expect this pain to be alleviated. It takes time, naturally, but it's not just that. I really hurt. I really ache over this. My chest is almost sentient and crying out in pain of this. It's too hard for men, anymore. It's too hard for men who are willing to embrace emotionalism, self-loathing and rejection. My favorite philosopher is Seneca, but my passions refer much more clearly to poets than philosophers, and Sophocles chief. I'm so much more emotional than I wish I was, and stopping it would be trying to dam one ocean from another. It's a terrific pain of having one's heart broken, even of one is ready for it. And I was on the phone with her, and I told her that I needed her to tell me that it wasn't going to happen, and she did. I finally got what I wanted out of our relationship, and for the moment I was content. But as the conversation whittled to to its end, I was rushed by circumstance and our goodbye was less my emotional attention and swapped with the chore of turning talk into silence.
And then the questions arise. Chief in this tribe for me is always the same: how do two people fall in love-no, that's not it. The question is "how do two people fall for each other. That, my loyal read-that, Matt Shirley, is the question.
You know what honestly is funny? I just bought three books today, one is another version of Macbeth, my favorite Shakespeare play, one is the Sporting News Fantasy Baseball prospectus, and the third is a moleskin journal that I'll keep in my breast pocket. Macbeth...fantasy...baseball...and one for my words. I've got to say something-anything, really.