For the record.

As long as you want to state a few things "for the record" I have a few things to say myself.

It's a horrible thing, being lonely. It's probably the worst feeling in the world. I should know. It's the way I spend most of the time these days. Of course, I know that my happiness should be motivated by internal forces, that happiness comes from within. But you know what? Mine's not. My happiness rises and falls like the chest of a runner, who has just finished a marathon. It collides like a car crash, explodes like a rocket ship, and then derails like a roller coaster. Not pretty, as you can imagine. My happiness has always depended on external factors. Like you.

I know, I'm working on it.

In a far away place I lie alone. In my room, a puddle on the floor, there is no wrong or right, there is no future, and only empty emotions fill the past. There is only this moment. And I am alone.

There is a song that I love. It is perhaps a lesser known song by the band Third Eye Blind, but any real alternative junkie should know it. It's called Motorcycle Driveby. Unlike How's it gonna be?, which perfectly captures the indecision and fear of regret when a relationship is ending, Motorcycle Driveby's message is one of hope, even as his relationship is ending. He sings: "I've never been so alone...but I've never been so alive."

My oldest friend and I relish this song. We know its secret, its power. We have been prone to singing it at the top of our lungs, radio blasting, with the windows opens, wind blowing in our hair, cigarettes in hand. We even sang it (perhaps indirectly) as we drove across Canada once, to dump a man's favorite possession on the empty highway of the great Canadian Shield. Vindictive bitches? Perhaps, but in that moment we believed in the power of Motorcycle Driveby. We believed it could set us free. But you know what? We are lying to ourselves. Who really feels that way? Vindicated by the loss of a love? Not I, I'll admit. No matter how you slice it, it still hurts. I only wish I felt that way.

My emotional quality is better captured by the old standby; the Simon and Garfunkel classic I am a Rock, of course. A song that will at any time or place find me belting out lyrics, or curled up in fetal position, or both, so desperate but oh so truthful. That song has always managed to express exactly what I am feeling when I am most alone. And frankly, we are all alone most of the time.

This is not to say there have not been improvements. Lately I can say his name, or talk about the little things. Seeing a happy couple doesn't make me want to cry. I don't get choked up when I see something he gave me, something we created together. I simply move on, let it pass through my fingers and through my subconscious. The emotion is a little less raw now. Instead, a dull, lingering sadness has set in. Everything seems a little less bright today. The days linger on. The sleepless nights are longer. And then they are gone just like they began.

I suppose this is progress; this is what it means to let go. And I wonder what it would feel like to completely let go. To let myself fall. Fall away from all this sadness; fall through the haze of emptiness, fall out of love, fall into another man's arms, fall into circumstance, fall for you. How would that feel? To completely let go? I think Jeff Bridges said it best in his portrayl of a washed up country music star in the Musical-drama Crazy Heart, when he sang the line, "Sometimes falling feels like flying."

for a little while.