I see things a little more clearly every day as being better and feeling peaceful and at rest returns, slowly. I see the things that I did wrong, and I see the things I could have done differently. I re-read poems, and they mean a little more to me; I see how I distorted meaning and twisted what I was doing, but I don't really know what to do about that now. There's no conversation to have about it except for the one that I have with myself on a daily basis, the one that I let spill over onto this blog. It's already done, and there's really no apology to make.
There are apologies, though, and not the ones you would think. I'm sorry I knew things that I shouldn't have and violated your privacy to find them out, but I'm sorry that you hid them. Not in an angry way, more so in a I-wish-you-didn't-have-to-hide-those-things-because-I-should-have-been-the-kind-of-friend-that-you-could-talk-to-about-those-things type of way.
I think of new things to apologize for every day. I'm good at finding fault in myself and apologizing...after the fact. That's always been a problem of mine: I learn too late.
___________________________________________________
This is really public. It's a good thing no one reads it.
___________________________________________________
4/29/11
4/28/11
Muck
We are all full of shit, and brime, and muck. I know that I am. I know that you've seen it.
I hope you are okay. I hope that one day you will embrace the shit and the brime and the muck and embrace it as part of you, as something that can be transcended, as something that you can acknowledge and move past, and not hide.
I saw it, and it was hard to see, and it was hard to not react angrily to. It's hard to see it in myself, too.
But it's there, and it's not going to go anywhere.
I know that I did this. I told you when you left that we couldn't be friends, but I stayed because you told me what I wanted to hear, and I wanted to be needed. I did this because I MADE it happen. I said the things I said because on some level I knew they would make you go away one day. But I bitterly, bitterly regret that it had to be THIS way. I bitterly, bitterly regret being hung up on in the middle of pleading for more words, for at least some sort of pleasant goodbye. Those memories will be with me for a long time. I bitterly, BITTERLY, and disdainfully regret not knowing my own worth, because now I feel like I'm back at square one.
You are not a bad person. You have done a lot of bad things, and I have said a lot of hurtful and harsh things to you, those things I am sorry for. And I am becoming more and more at peace that I am not going to get an apology for you leaving the way you did. That I am not going to get a response. I'm told by Tatiana that I cannot contact you directly, because that could be perceived as threatening when someone has blocked your phone number. I'm sorry that I have to become at peace with hearing that, and with seeing your friends and feeling like they have nothing but hate for me, and you probably feel like that, too. I have to become okay with that.
I regret that I wasn't able to be the friend that you needed. But it never would have been possible for me.
I will become okay. I will address the things in my life that I have needed to take a second look at for three years now.
I am going to put this away now. I hope that one day in the future we can talk about this. I'm sorry this is a letter.
I'm just not that good at poems.
Love,
Sam
I hope you are okay. I hope that one day you will embrace the shit and the brime and the muck and embrace it as part of you, as something that can be transcended, as something that you can acknowledge and move past, and not hide.
I saw it, and it was hard to see, and it was hard to not react angrily to. It's hard to see it in myself, too.
But it's there, and it's not going to go anywhere.
I know that I did this. I told you when you left that we couldn't be friends, but I stayed because you told me what I wanted to hear, and I wanted to be needed. I did this because I MADE it happen. I said the things I said because on some level I knew they would make you go away one day. But I bitterly, bitterly regret that it had to be THIS way. I bitterly, bitterly regret being hung up on in the middle of pleading for more words, for at least some sort of pleasant goodbye. Those memories will be with me for a long time. I bitterly, BITTERLY, and disdainfully regret not knowing my own worth, because now I feel like I'm back at square one.
You are not a bad person. You have done a lot of bad things, and I have said a lot of hurtful and harsh things to you, those things I am sorry for. And I am becoming more and more at peace that I am not going to get an apology for you leaving the way you did. That I am not going to get a response. I'm told by Tatiana that I cannot contact you directly, because that could be perceived as threatening when someone has blocked your phone number. I'm sorry that I have to become at peace with hearing that, and with seeing your friends and feeling like they have nothing but hate for me, and you probably feel like that, too. I have to become okay with that.
I regret that I wasn't able to be the friend that you needed. But it never would have been possible for me.
I will become okay. I will address the things in my life that I have needed to take a second look at for three years now.
I am going to put this away now. I hope that one day in the future we can talk about this. I'm sorry this is a letter.
I'm just not that good at poems.
Love,
Sam
4/26/11
Sense, Logic & Equilibrium
Sometimes in economics classes I stare at the board. It happens whenever I'm having a particularly frustrating/sad/senseless/confusing/empty/fucked day. I stare and I look at the graphs, the lines, the intersections, the points of tangency, the equations, the accounting identities, the truths, and the assumptions that have been painted on my mind.
They make sense; the models flow from one step to the next. They are predictable, and in that small world of me and the board, of me and the professor, they are infallible.
Supply and demand intersect at the market equilibrium price and quantity. All that is produced is sold at the market-clearing price.
Output is the sum of consumption, investment, government purchases, and net exports.
Consumers maximize utility while firms seek to maximize profit.
The capital stock of a country tends toward the amount where depreciation, technological and population growth exactly equal investment.
Consumption is maximized where a line parellel to depreciation is drawn tangent to the output function.
A consumer will buy, and a firm will hire and sell until the marginal productivity of the last unit hired exactly equals the marginal expense of hiring or selling or buying that last unit.
I chose my major because it makes sense in a small world, but it describes nothing. It comes so close to beauty in that it reduces everything to the simplest form possible, and yet it's so far from anything real that it must be ugly.
An underlying assumption in most economic models is that people are rational: they are consistent, and they act in their own benefit. Sometime's that's so far from the truth, but if it is anywhere close to it, I am merely a sunk cost, as so many people have been to me.
They make sense; the models flow from one step to the next. They are predictable, and in that small world of me and the board, of me and the professor, they are infallible.
Supply and demand intersect at the market equilibrium price and quantity. All that is produced is sold at the market-clearing price.
Output is the sum of consumption, investment, government purchases, and net exports.
Consumers maximize utility while firms seek to maximize profit.
The capital stock of a country tends toward the amount where depreciation, technological and population growth exactly equal investment.
Consumption is maximized where a line parellel to depreciation is drawn tangent to the output function.
A consumer will buy, and a firm will hire and sell until the marginal productivity of the last unit hired exactly equals the marginal expense of hiring or selling or buying that last unit.
I chose my major because it makes sense in a small world, but it describes nothing. It comes so close to beauty in that it reduces everything to the simplest form possible, and yet it's so far from anything real that it must be ugly.
An underlying assumption in most economic models is that people are rational: they are consistent, and they act in their own benefit. Sometime's that's so far from the truth, but if it is anywhere close to it, I am merely a sunk cost, as so many people have been to me.
Nothing.
I have to write this.
Do you remember when you cried and said you didn't deserve me?
Do you remember when you told me you would never leave?
Do you remember when you told me I could always come back?
Do you remember when you said you hoped I was making the right choice, when I left?
Do you remember the countless times you guilted me into staying?
Do you remember when you grabbed my coat and said you did it because you didn't want to lose me?
Do you remember when you yelled at me and called me childish for not picking up the phone?
Do you remember all of it, like I remember it?
Was it rolling through your mind when you left me outside in the rain?
Were the memories of everything that happened with you when you hung up on me, as I begged you not to?
And when you did it a second time?
When you blocked my phone number and ran away from me when you saw me?
When I begged you just to talk to me?
What were you thinking? What were you doing?
Where were you and how did you feel when I lay on my couch and stared, and cried, and sobbed?
Where were you when I felt worthless and abandoned?
When I felt lied to, and led on, and deserted?
I wish that you had talked to me. I wish that it could have been on different terms; I wish that it could have been on my terms.
I wish that I didn't feel so full of hate, and I wish this sorry piece of writing weren't so biased.
But I am, and it is, and it's too late to do anything different now.
IhysfmfdwIshdbiD. Ydi.
Do you remember when you cried and said you didn't deserve me?
Do you remember when you told me you would never leave?
Do you remember when you told me I could always come back?
Do you remember when you said you hoped I was making the right choice, when I left?
Do you remember the countless times you guilted me into staying?
Do you remember when you grabbed my coat and said you did it because you didn't want to lose me?
Do you remember when you yelled at me and called me childish for not picking up the phone?
Do you remember all of it, like I remember it?
Was it rolling through your mind when you left me outside in the rain?
Were the memories of everything that happened with you when you hung up on me, as I begged you not to?
And when you did it a second time?
When you blocked my phone number and ran away from me when you saw me?
When I begged you just to talk to me?
What were you thinking? What were you doing?
Where were you and how did you feel when I lay on my couch and stared, and cried, and sobbed?
Where were you when I felt worthless and abandoned?
When I felt lied to, and led on, and deserted?
I wish that you had talked to me. I wish that it could have been on different terms; I wish that it could have been on my terms.
I wish that I didn't feel so full of hate, and I wish this sorry piece of writing weren't so biased.
But I am, and it is, and it's too late to do anything different now.
IhysfmfdwIshdbiD. Ydi.
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