I’m not the sort to write a diary. But, I am the sort who writes. I write to clear my head, to maintain my sanity, to put things in an order that makes sense to me and today, I need that order and that sense. So, I’m not the sort to write in a diary, but, since I’m doing a similar exercise, I might as well follow the rules.
Last night, Lucy and I spent the night on the beach. It was beautiful. A songbird was singing in a distance; waves were gently washing ashore and the moon hung lazily in the sky and let its beams dance about to create poetry through the night, that, we, the lovers if the night, could hear and heed and follow in our insanity. And we followed it. We let the moon take us where it wanted to.
We followed every moonbeam across the sand and felt reverted to a time when things were much simpler; like when girls still had cooties and milk and cookies were still eaten before bed. I remember laughing like I used to then and I remember running like I couldn’t feel the heaviness of all this grown up muscle and sinew. When we finally lay down on our blanket under the light of the moon and the shade of a cove that the moonbeams led us to, it was with a lightness that years and age had stolen from us. The process of growing up is a bitch, Mr. Diary, and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise!
But, Mr. Diary, for all that lightness, I was carrying a heavy weight in my pocket. The letter that Dee wrote me was burning a hole through my side. I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much. I mean, I’m happy here. Lucy and I were meant to be since the day we met. I’ve never met a person that I was more in sync with. We are like two poles of the same magnet…and so, as much as we are bound together, I’m not sure we don’t repel each other.
We are too similar, Mr. Diary.
I sometimes wake up with a fear in my heart that the world that we live in will one day be shattered; because it’s too perfect and perfect things are not meant to last. I feel scared that when reality comes knocking, without the least warning like it usually does, we won’t be able to stand it. Lucy won’t be able to stand it. I’m afraid that when we fall apart, we’ll fall apart on such a thing that it’ll leave a chasm so deep between us, that bridging it would be impossible.
I feel like I’m in a chess game, weighing the odds of sacrificing a knight for the king’s safety. Only here, it’s not the knight, but the queen and it’s not plastic pieces but hearts of friends and lovers.
What do I do, Mr. Diary?
Last night, Lucy asked me if I would walk into the sea with her in search of the fabled Atlantis if she asked me to or would I rather stay on the shore where stories are remembered as just stories and Atlantis is only a kingdom of make-believe? I couldn’t answer because my throat closed up and I choked on the night air.
The truth is, Mr. Diary, that I’m not a brave person. Lucy is brave. Dee is very brave. I’m just…I follow their bravura and bask in its glory; but, me… I’m not a brave person. Walking into the sea, with the salty water lapping around my legs, reaching through my chest to squeeze the air out of my lungs…the thought robs me of my breath and makes me feel like I’m already drowning.
The problem is, Lucy, instead of pulling me out, will join me there and call it our own little world. The problem is, beside Lucy, I’ll enjoy even that suffocating little world. The problem is, under the cover of my happiness, Lucy’s little world will soon kill me.
What should I do, Mr. Diary?
I look at the girl sleeping beside me and I’m overwhelmed by love…by joy…by doubt…and tonight, the doubt is winning out.
I’m sorry. I love her. Please forgive me.