Today I blocked my Eater-of-Souls on Facebook. Again. Then I went for a two-mile run, trying to tire out the sorrow.
Blocking him seems childish in a way, but it is more than anything an admission that I'm not over him, not getting over him, and that there is no hope for us, now or ever, because the conditions of my exile require getting over him for there to be hope.
It's a double bind, a catch-22. There is nowhere to go with it. So I give up, and I give in to being hopelessly in love with him, and I give in to the permanence of being separated from him. I give in completely to his absence from my life. I admit my helplessness over the yawning void where it still feels his body and words should be.
Maybe someday my hands will stop shaking. And maybe someday, after hopelessness has worn its way through the soles of my running shoes, I'll be ready to move on and love someone else, someone completely different, completely unique, and completely wonderful in ways that could not possibly be any more unlike Eater-of-Souls.
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hopelessness has worn its way through the soles of my running shoes
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