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7:16 p.m. - August 16, 2003
Can this be so simple, understated, and clear?
I look at him through the window and he's on the balcony smoking and I wonder whether I'm in love with him. There is no conviction welling from inside or my head, and that other faulty organ has no say in the matter, its poor judgment sufficiently known.

No pat-on-the-back monologues You deserve better, Jason or evidentiary scales He hits, he's downright mean, he says he's sorry, he says he loves me or inconclusive silver bullets that do the trick, Never again. None of those but something both nebulous and concrete, something I can't name but know. Though I love him and he may love me, that doesn't mean we're required to make something work, build a rickety shack together while each holds onto his musings of what should and could be. I could tell him a thousand times be gentle and it'll be okay and he'll laugh and say gentle is for making love and I want to fuck or he could tell me I'm in denial or a headcase or cold, and he won't let me throw something potentially good away, and I look at him like he's a stranger though our lives are twined together by chance or fortune or the slip-up of karma.

I will be, I can be, okay without him. And maybe he can be better with someone else. This is what I think watching him now, and I think how difficult it is to let go and move on, how lonely and destructive it seems but like the phoenix out of ash tomorrow comes from today. That's what I'll tell myself tonight and tomorrow.

I feel not at peace, not resolute. I feel understanding.

Does that make sense?


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