It was Wednesday, and I knew you’d leave, so I had to get out first. I woke up beside you, but the apartment was empty. It was filled to the brim with mementos and photos, with knick knacks you had given me or I had picked up over the years, but it was emptier than the day I moved in. I kissed you goodbye as I always did and trudged out into another day. I greeted both those tasks with the same resigned apathy that had strangled my spirit for months.
It was Wednesday. The sheen of summer had gone, leaving only its languid oppressive heat. Some leaves were crumbling at the first sights of fall. I was trapped. Trapped in the purgatory between summer and fall that lacks the charm of either. Trapped without the comfort of companionship or the freedom of being alone. Trapped in my daydreams of what might have been and memories of what never was. I was trapped, so I had to leave.
It was Wednesday, and leaving didn’t make any sense. I’ve never made any sense either, so it didn’t bother me as much. All I knew was that the only way to escape my preoccupations was to find something else to occupy the void that was created when I gave up. I just couldn’t handle the gaping emptiness that weighed on my shoulders more heavily than the blanket of summer humidity that drenched my back. I had to get out, and I had to find something—someone—anything that would save me from myself and keep me company in my lonesome mind. I tried to explain it to you before, but you said I was crazy. That was when I knew you’d leave, but it didn’t bother me until Wednesday. There was something about the realization that the apartment was emptier when we were both in it than when neither of us was that made it seem smaller than it ever had. There was something about that Wednesday, and I had to leave.
It was Wednesday, and I’d never seen the ocean. I’d read about it—sure—but, like most of the other constant figures of my daydreams, I had never seen it for myself. I decided to trade the grit and grime of my increasing wanderlust and ennui for some sand between my toes. I wanted to test my belief that the only thing constant in life is the change and movement in the water.
It was Wednesday, and everything was changing. I could feel it in the air. Maybe it was the changing of the seasons, maybe it was age, or maybe I was finally coping with the death of something I had nurtured for far too long. It made me apprehensive. For a while, I had longed for change—longed for the racing excitement and pounding heart that accompanied a new opportunity, a new hope, a new love, a new life—but this wasn’t that. This was the kind of change that formed as a knot in my stomach and slowly crawled its way into my throat—the kind of change that only seemed to make me even less capable in a world that’s only getting bigger and more intimidating. I needed to wrap myself in salt air and quiet anonymity. I needed to step away and ignore it for a while.
It was Wednesday, and we got in my car at around midnight. He was the only one who got it—who understood that the heaviness in my soul went farther than the air that was as thick as molasses—who understood that midnight was the best time to see the ocean—who knew that running from nothing was much, much more painfully important than running from something. We drove for hours like you never would, aimlessly heading East. We sang, and we talked, but the most convincing conversations were had in total silence. We got to the ocean, and it was raining. We strolled down the beach and listened as the rain dropped on the wet sand and the waves pounded against the shore. We didn’t know each other, really, but we didn’t know ourselves either, so it didn’t seem to matter. I was lost in realizing the irony that rain, so inconvenient and destructive, is the only thing to nourish the marsh that was otherwise dying. The rain grew harder and, out of a terror of lightning that has guided me since I was small, we climbed back into my compact car and sat gazing at the ocean through the rainy blurred lens of the windshield.
It was Wednesday, and I found myself at the same time that I lost you. For such a long time, I couldn’t see because you told me I didn’t have to. It was there—in the dark, with stars and moon obscured by a brooding storm that matched my mood—that I saw more light than I had seen in years. The flash of the camera would have ruined it entirely, so I turned on the interior light of the car and knelt outside, hoping to capture the meaning of something entirely too big to describe. I spent so many years chasing butterflies and snapping pictures, both in hopes of capturing something that is much less beautiful once it’s under control, that I missed the beauty. This particular trip, despite lasting for hours with no worries to cloud my lens, only resulted in one picture, but that was all I needed. It wasn’t one of the better pictures I had taken—the waves were blurred by the water smeared on the windshield, and the whole thing seemed out of focus—but it will always be my favorite. It was the night I rediscovered something I had lost years before, and the night that I found him.
It was Thursday when I got out first, but we were gone long before then. You blamed everything—me, him, my capriciousness, my brooding—but you never got it. It wasn’t any of those things. It was just Thursday, like it had always been, but not like that at all. It was Thursday, and I broke out of the loneliness I had wrapped myself in for years. I had watched the lonely strings of rain merge seamlessly into the pounding waves. It was Thursday, and my eyes were opened. It was Thursday, and it finally started to rain.
It was Wednesday. The sheen of summer had gone, leaving only its languid oppressive heat. Some leaves were crumbling at the first sights of fall. I was trapped. Trapped in the purgatory between summer and fall that lacks the charm of either. Trapped without the comfort of companionship or the freedom of being alone. Trapped in my daydreams of what might have been and memories of what never was. I was trapped, so I had to leave.
It was Wednesday, and leaving didn’t make any sense. I’ve never made any sense either, so it didn’t bother me as much. All I knew was that the only way to escape my preoccupations was to find something else to occupy the void that was created when I gave up. I just couldn’t handle the gaping emptiness that weighed on my shoulders more heavily than the blanket of summer humidity that drenched my back. I had to get out, and I had to find something—someone—anything that would save me from myself and keep me company in my lonesome mind. I tried to explain it to you before, but you said I was crazy. That was when I knew you’d leave, but it didn’t bother me until Wednesday. There was something about the realization that the apartment was emptier when we were both in it than when neither of us was that made it seem smaller than it ever had. There was something about that Wednesday, and I had to leave.
It was Wednesday, and I’d never seen the ocean. I’d read about it—sure—but, like most of the other constant figures of my daydreams, I had never seen it for myself. I decided to trade the grit and grime of my increasing wanderlust and ennui for some sand between my toes. I wanted to test my belief that the only thing constant in life is the change and movement in the water.
It was Wednesday, and everything was changing. I could feel it in the air. Maybe it was the changing of the seasons, maybe it was age, or maybe I was finally coping with the death of something I had nurtured for far too long. It made me apprehensive. For a while, I had longed for change—longed for the racing excitement and pounding heart that accompanied a new opportunity, a new hope, a new love, a new life—but this wasn’t that. This was the kind of change that formed as a knot in my stomach and slowly crawled its way into my throat—the kind of change that only seemed to make me even less capable in a world that’s only getting bigger and more intimidating. I needed to wrap myself in salt air and quiet anonymity. I needed to step away and ignore it for a while.
It was Wednesday, and we got in my car at around midnight. He was the only one who got it—who understood that the heaviness in my soul went farther than the air that was as thick as molasses—who understood that midnight was the best time to see the ocean—who knew that running from nothing was much, much more painfully important than running from something. We drove for hours like you never would, aimlessly heading East. We sang, and we talked, but the most convincing conversations were had in total silence. We got to the ocean, and it was raining. We strolled down the beach and listened as the rain dropped on the wet sand and the waves pounded against the shore. We didn’t know each other, really, but we didn’t know ourselves either, so it didn’t seem to matter. I was lost in realizing the irony that rain, so inconvenient and destructive, is the only thing to nourish the marsh that was otherwise dying. The rain grew harder and, out of a terror of lightning that has guided me since I was small, we climbed back into my compact car and sat gazing at the ocean through the rainy blurred lens of the windshield.
It was Wednesday, and I found myself at the same time that I lost you. For such a long time, I couldn’t see because you told me I didn’t have to. It was there—in the dark, with stars and moon obscured by a brooding storm that matched my mood—that I saw more light than I had seen in years. The flash of the camera would have ruined it entirely, so I turned on the interior light of the car and knelt outside, hoping to capture the meaning of something entirely too big to describe. I spent so many years chasing butterflies and snapping pictures, both in hopes of capturing something that is much less beautiful once it’s under control, that I missed the beauty. This particular trip, despite lasting for hours with no worries to cloud my lens, only resulted in one picture, but that was all I needed. It wasn’t one of the better pictures I had taken—the waves were blurred by the water smeared on the windshield, and the whole thing seemed out of focus—but it will always be my favorite. It was the night I rediscovered something I had lost years before, and the night that I found him.
It was Thursday when I got out first, but we were gone long before then. You blamed everything—me, him, my capriciousness, my brooding—but you never got it. It wasn’t any of those things. It was just Thursday, like it had always been, but not like that at all. It was Thursday, and I broke out of the loneliness I had wrapped myself in for years. I had watched the lonely strings of rain merge seamlessly into the pounding waves. It was Thursday, and my eyes were opened. It was Thursday, and it finally started to rain.
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