Walking Away

When I met you, I was still lost in someone else. Still a broken, incomplete person, dealing with the hurt from the past. Still trying to find myself in those pieces. 

Back then, I never thought I could ever feel that way about someone again. I thought that the next time I fall for someone, my heart would be more guarded, more afraid, less willing to take risks. Because that's the person I was back then. Every time I started to feel anything about someone, I would force myself to snap out of it. Pull myself back to rationality.

But then you walked in. At first, I didn't give it much thought. I didn't think I needed any safety because I saw you as just another person I would eventually pull myself away from. I didn't think of you as someone who was here to stay. When I first realized that you were becoming more important to me than I'd anticipated, I still believed that I had it under control, that it was just a rush of feelings on meeting someone new, that it would go away. 

And that was true till an extent. After a while, we lost touch. And that might have been the end of it. I was normal again. Or as close as it got to that. I would will myself back to rationality, prevent myself from thinking about you, distract myself. And it almost worked. Almost.

But even then, I guess there were always times when I knew I was lying to myself. I knew you mattered more than I cared to admit. And a little while later, you came traipsing back into my life. We talked, we laughed, we hung out. You knew things no one knew about me. And I would like to believe I knew a little bit more of you than most. You were caring and supportive. You were easy to talk to, and above all, you understood. You understood things others couldn't. It wasn't long in terms of time, but as far as friendships go, you were already one of the most important. I suppose that's really the type of person you are.

You were all wrong for me. You were trouble. And I knew there was absolutely no way that I would ever mean anything to you in the romantic sense. I knew I needed to stop risking everything, I needed to guard myself, come back to my senses. Yes, I knew all of that.

Yet, for some reason, I couldn't. When I was around you, I just never stood a chance. I was the irrational fool again. I was silly and sensible, irresponsible and grown up - all at the same time. I knew I was in over my head, despite my reluctance to the idea of getting serious about any other person again. A year ago, when I was still getting over things, I never thought I'd love someone again in the foreseeable future.

And now, if it was possible, I loved you even more. 

I could've gotten over it. I could've broken off all contact and moved on with my life. It wouldn't have been easy but it was possible.

But I didn't want to. Even when I knew nothing would ever come out of it, nothing could ever happen between us. For a variety of reasons, the idea of 'us' just wasn't possible. 

Yet I didn't want to end it. I didn't want to finish whatever it was that we had. I wanted to risk it.

I liked the person I was around you. I like the person you've made me. I've had my dark moments, but every time I was with you, I was happy. Truly happy. I was smiling. Laughing again. Something inside felt alive once more. After a long long time, I was willing to take a chance and lay everything on the line. I knew it would hurt when it ended, perhaps more than before. But with you, it was worth it. 

I loved you. I loved you enough to take chances. Enough to watch you with another, and still be happy. Enough to be happy with just knowing that I loved you. Without any expectation in return.

And that was the deal. I allowed myself to feel that way about someone again, but I would never let myself expect anything in return.

At least I was mature in that sense. I always knew where I stood, and where you were. I knew that the time I had with you wouldn't last, and that I had to make the best of it. I knew not to take things for granted. All those moments I spent with you, I knew how important they were. How I had to memorize it all, for it would all come to an end before I realized. I was aware of the frailty of love, and the ruthlessness of time.

And I was mature enough to accept that. No amount of time I spent with you would ever be enough. When it was time to leave, I had to pick myself up and leave. I had to call it quits and say goodbye. I had to remember the promise I made to myself at the beginning -- no expectations. 

And now that it's over, that is what I keep reminding myself.

You opened my heart again. You made me realize that eventually, its possible to get over past hurt, and fall in love. You made me willing to take chances and believe in love. That is perhaps the reason why it all happened. The reason you walked into my life. And now, a little while later, walked out.

It wasn't long in terms of calendar months. But to me, it seems like an entire lifetime. I am a new person thanks to you.

I will always love you. And when I look around me, there are more than a few reminders of things that you said or did. But that's all there will be to it. Memories. Conversations I can play in my head. Moments that I can relive every time I close my eyes. 

You will move on, have a life of your own. One I never have and never will fit into. You'll find someone else who will make you feel the way I feel about you. And at the end, that's what I want for you. I don't have to be with you. It's enough for me to know that I love you.

Maybe I'll get over it, and in time find another hurricane that will sweep me off my feet, just like you did. Yet, all said and done, you are a person I will always remember fondly. Through a walk in the park during spring time, I'll imagine how it would be to have you beside me. What you would say or do. Or when the season's first snow falls, I'll imagine how it would be to share that moment with you. When candle light reflects off the stem of a wine glass, I'll see your deep brown eyes. And when I'm standing by the river on a moonlit night, I'll miss you.

Yes, I have to and I am, walking away, but I'll think about you. 
Every now and then, I'll think about you.

On Being Nothing

By BRIAN JAY STANLEY

Every man looketh that his companion should value him at the same rate he sets upon himself.

–Thomas Hobbes

As a carryover from childhood camps, I still instinctively check my mailbox with excitement. At camp, when I felt homesick, the arrival of mail from family was a reminder that I was not forgotten, that somewhere in the great world, though not here, my existence was written boldly in another’s ledger. Now, despite my Pavlovian reflex, browsing my mail is not merely unexciting but depressing.

Why should we care what thoughts are in the minds of others? Is this not like a Canadian fretting about the weather in Mexico?

What am I in this world but a pawn of others’ projects? The utility companies require the payments they are owed. The stores have new products they invite me to come and buy. A speaker has planned a lecture and seeks an audience. I owe taxes to the government for making money, for spending that money, for owning a home, for owning a car to leave that home. I am not a name but an account number, a social security number, a customer ID, a “current resident” of this address. Every day, I am sought out by people who do not know me but who want something from me. I matter to the world merely as the owner of a bank account from which others wish to withdraw.

Most annoying are subscription solicitations I receive from literary magazines that got my name and address from rejecting work I submitted. They do not want my writing, but might I send them my money — so I can read the writers they chose over me? They thwart my project and subsume me into theirs. Not that I can blame any of these solicitors. A store needs customers, a speaker needs listeners, a publisher needs subscribers. I use others as surely as others use me. They are not my enemies but individuals trying to live and succeed, just as I am. Nevertheless, all those individuals added together make up the world, and the world is cruel.

At every stage of life, we desire to be noticed and affirmed by others. Infants are born craving affection as much as milk. Children playing do not require the active involvement of nearby adults, but if you try to leave they demand that you watch them play. Adolescents, in their perpetual anxiety to be popular, do not so much look at others through their own eyes as look constantly at themselves through others’ eyes. Those who are dying worry about being remembered after death, though when dead, how can they care if they’re forgotten? As adults, our successes give us little pleasure unless sweetened by others’ admiration. If we dress up, there must be others to see us or our work seems wasted — no one wears a tuxedo at home. A marvelous gardener once told me (speaking for human nature) that he takes more delight in a single garden visitor’s compliment than in all the shrubs and flowers he has ever planted. What is this craving for another’s eye to rest upon us? 

Upon reflection, a desire for recognition seems irrational. Since we live in our own minds, why should we care what thoughts are in the minds of others? Is this not like a Canadian fretting about the weather in Mexico? How to explain this need for notice is debatable. Are we so doubtful of our worth that others must attest to it? Conversely, are we so certain of our worth that others must bow down to it?

Growing up in a small town, I had an audience. I knew everyone at church, at school, on opposing sports teams. Everyone else knew everyone, too. Thus we were all one another’s audience. This did not always make life pleasant; one had an audience for one’s failures as well as one’s successes. But it made life meaningful. Everything counted because someone was watching. In high school, the bliss of getting a pretty girlfriend consisted less in having the girl herself than in walking the halls with her on your arm, for others to see. The chief motivation to score goals in sports was not to beat the other team but to impress the fans. To score a goal or get a girl on a desert island would have been a paltry pleasure. Small town life resembled the medieval universe in which saints and angels looked down on the adventures of humankind. Your actions might lead to heaven or hell, but because all eyes were on you, even damnation possessed a certain coziness.

A decisive break in my life occurred when I left town after high school. My well-nurtured ego thought of the outside world as the waiting arena of my actions, where all humanity was expectantly assembled for me, yet when I arrived I found that no one knew my name nor wished to learn it; I was a king without any subjects. Arriving at college was like stepping out of the medieval world into the modern. The campus was a chaos of otherness with nothing at the center, least of all me. Unknown students from unknown places lived unknown lives, unconnected to mine. What did my actions matter anymore, since no one was keeping track of me but me? I studied anomie in my sociology classes and experienced it alone in my dorm room. Though I made friends, I no longer had an audience.

I remember lying awake in my dorm bed the first night I arrived on campus. The thought gripped me that no one on campus or in the city knew I had come or required that I be there in order to function. The local restaurants had been in business for 20 years without my patronage. The dorm where I slept had been housing students since before I was born. If I died tonight, I thought, the city would not miss me or pause from its busy routines except for someone to call my family to fetch my body. I felt frightened to be so unnecessary. The one comfort I clung to was that the college had admitted me and, more importantly, had offered me a scholarship, implying it wanted me. For what is the proof of being wanted except being paid?

I began noticing every small sign of my insignificance to others, and minor episodes made deep impressions. One day during my sophomore year, I was issued a $100 citation for parking seven feet from a fire hydrant, when the law required 15 feet. I thought the ticket was unreasonable, for although common sense told me not to block a fire hydrant, how was I to know the precise distance required, when no one had posted a sign? I appealed the ticket using this argument but was informed in a formal letter that the law does not bend for the ignorant, and I had to pay. Reading the brief, austere sentences from an authoritative stranger gave me a view of myself through the law’s eyes, as a nameless citizen. I had duties more than rights; the law’s only concern was that the human herd keep inside the fences. Excuses were irrelevant.

Some days I feel so insubstantial that I am startled by signs of my visible presence in the world. On a recent afternoon walk, when my thoughts on these matters had gone somewhat too far, a dog rooting in the grass turned its head and barked at me. I turned my head toward the sound in surprise: I had made the rooting dog look up — therefore I did exist. True, the dog hated me, but in its bark I heard a vicious compliment, for it is better to be hated than ignored, hate being a form of acknowledgement, albeit negative.

Society is adroit at disillusioning newcomers, and many self-assured children grow up to be bitter adults. But bitterness, instead of a form of disillusionment, is really the refusal to give up your childhood illusions of importance. Ignored instead of welcomed by the world, you fault the world as blind and evil in order not to fault yourself as naïve. Bitterness is a child’s coddling narcissism within the context of an adult’s harsh life. Instead, I know that the world only tramples me as a street crowd does an earthworm — not out of malice or stupidity, but because no one sees it. Thus my pain is not to feel wrongly slighted, but to feel rightly slighted.

There must be a Copernican revolution of the self. Instead of pointlessly cursing the sun to go around me, my chance of contentment is learning to orbit, being the world’s audience instead of demanding the world be mine. If the world is a stage, then everyone’s an extra, acting minor roles in simultaneous scenes in which no one has the lead. With so much happening, society is poorly made to satisfy pride, but well made to satisfy interest, if we will only let go of our vanity and join the swirl of activity.

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Brian Jay Stanley’s essays have appeared in Pleiades, North American Review, The Antioch Review and elsewhere. He lives in Asheville, N.C. More of his work can be found on his Web site.

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