Portending lonesomeness


It shocks me how much I can miss you day to day, when only a mile or two separates us from one another; it feels like living in a separate world. I realize I’m wary of the power this lonesomeness is wont to have over me, and if I spend a moment thinking ahead, I worry about this feeling being increased exponentially, multiplied by a factor of 3,000.


Missing You by Chukwukwe Eugenia Adaku

It’s somewhat ironic, but the time spent apart is almost less jarring to me than the potential time together: the small and brief allocated times when we could truly be with one another, not just in contact, peppered sporadically and inconsistently throughout a tumultuous yearly calendar, may be able to be counted on one hand. It may not even fill one hand. That, more than anything else, clutches an icy fist around my stomach and heart. And that’s in an ideal circumstance, where each overlapping moment of freedom was spent in the same place at the same time, ignoring all other potential events and plans. Statistically reduced to smaller and smaller odds, time together starts to sound more like a prayer whispered to errant winds rather than a conviction that would take divine intervention to prevent. And that is crushing to me.

Promises are promises are promises, but sincerity can only combat emotion so much–of course we won’t decide to cast aside one dream for another, not limit opportunities for the sake of fear. Within the scope of possibilities, however, comes the fervent wish for a panacea–an ideal condition that means no sacrifice, no worry, no fear, no separation.

And I feel self-centered
because from an objective and surface examination, such a possibility only exists to my own selfish end. You don’t cause me to feel ego-centric, I do not pin this feeling on you: I simply acknowledge that because of the two existingnpossibilities, one makes me seem demanding and pushy. And I hate that, absolutely hate
appearing that way.

I just can’t let you go. I can’t. That was and would be true regardless of where we stand, together, here and now. That became a reality for me–the one true reality I’ve discerned for myself in my life–just about a year ago, and has only solidified more and more and more, through the struggles and ups and downs and resolution by which we are one, up to this very point: the precipice.

The edge of impending loneliness, all because it’s an undeniable truth to me that I love you, and no distance nor time nor fear can ever strain or reverse or damage that absolute truth.

And so I write this for me, for you, for us, because there has to be some new way of explaining what and why and how. But this isn’t explaining the how–I can’t offer a solution. Because to offer a solution is to imply, even in
some unintended and unspoken way, that I’m right about this whole mess. But I’m not, I can’t be. There’s no argument or debate. There’s no “winning” with persuasion and making one concede a point to achieve consensus. Nothing about this, or us, is or ever will be “wrong.” I don’t have a trump card to play, and if I did, I wouldn’t: I’ve only got what I’ve always had– hope. Hope that no matter what, we will fight to make the most of what precious seconds we find.

Hope that our individual happiness supersedes all doubt and builds together to form a mutual happiness, just as it always has. Hope that any time apart does nothing more than to define the importance of time together, that together means just as much apart as it does together now.

Let’s make the most of now, then. Let’s not let fear of portending moments cast a shadow over the constant sunshine I feel inside. I’m here, I’m yours, and I always will be. That I promise, promise.

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