cruel optimism

Time is unkind.


I just stumbled upon an old letter.
Funny how time fails to dull the sharpness of certain words. Just as I was beginning to consider a beginning without the author of such cruel words, I was taken in again, consumed by precisely that which makes his words so cruel: hope.

...you had your reasons for not responding and I value that so I drew the line and you became a friend. That doesn't mean that line cant ever be erased...

We were both victims of a wicked trick of time, yet I seem to be the only one who has yet to recover.

Aw boo, what could tempt me into opening old wounds? Nothing but the banal, conceited words of someone else. Words that are not his, words that have no meaning, words that have nothing at all to do with me. Perhaps this makes me banal and conceited. Regardless, I long to be caught in a whir of words that have everything to do with me - real words that do not merely make faint illusions to hope and promise.


*I realize that other than the title, this has nothing to do with Berlant. Well, Berlant, not everything has to be about you...

:P