sail along the silver sky

I remember sitting on the edge of her bed. Her old boyfriend's picture in a drawer somewhere now, and her new boyfriend out of town for the weekend, which is why we were visiting. Me and Dave, who was really sub-league for me except at the time I was not really capable of interacting with my actual peers and he played guitar so he became attractive to me. This was the fall after the summer when I gave everything up. Most of my thinking at the time had to do with how excellent and frightening it felt to float away, rid of ballast, no ties. I cut off all my hair because it seemed a terrible encumbrance, and then balanced this with heavy bracelets, silver rings. I was not unconflicted. Deep down I knew that giving up what you want is not the same as giving up wanting. Anyway sitting on the edge of her bed, and he's brushing her hair, and then she's brushing his. Hers short and blond, his long waves of golden chestnut, something for a girl to envy, and I watched the brush going through her hair, going through his, the two of them giggling together. I felt like I was watching monkeys grooming, ridiculous. And I felt so absurdly jealous I wanted to cry. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched another connection I had imagined sever itself. Another rope cut.

I don't feel anything particular about that story now. It's a thing that happened. I remember it so that I don't repeat it, so that I never again find myself sitting on the edge of a bed close to tears for being who I am or for wanting something for a moment, wanting anything, even less than I deserve. It wasn't a good moment, but I got through it, I got through worse, and I wouldn't trade the memory for the absence of the pain it caused. Even if the scars are ugly, it beats the alternative, which is for all the fire in my heart to burn out while I stay in one place, tethered to a ground I know is uninhabitable.