There's a story in those words. It's about choice and consquences. To love something so dearly, to want it so badly...and yet to go a different way. And to have the choices of the road not taken to be rubbed in every time one sees a ship, or a body of water.
The song is about a guy who picked his girl over the lure of the sea. But it stands as a greater metaphor for us all. We make choices. They take us ways we'd never expect. The choice not made can be as great as the choice that was.
I've been doing a lot of thinking in my self-imposed exile. One of those things is realizing how few of my friends will actually see these words. Is it a bit shortsighted of those friends to not take a chance to get to know me better, to read my words as I thought, to get an understanding of my complexities? Or is it better that they not know, because to get caught up in my complexities is to get caught up in a whirlpool of uncontrolled thoughts and feelings?
In trading this sea for that shore, are they being good friends or bad? In not wanting to understand me, are they protecting themselves? And of course, worst thoughts, do they really care? It's easy to wonder that opinion on the net, especially with people you've never heard, or never seen. But even the ones you've seen and heard can be hard to understand.
Somewhere along the way, I changed. I wish I could point out just exactly where it happened, so I could understand better this alienation I feel from most of the people I trust with the title of "friend." There's a couple of people who have stuck by me through thick and thin -- to name them here would be good, but I fear the reaction of people who would be left out of such a list. But they know who they are.
Somewhere along the way, I picked up the notion that the feelings of other people are to come before mine, that I was to allow people to express themselves fully even if it meant that I broke in two. That changed this year, I don't know why. Maybe it's because, when it comes down, I can't snap, I can't break, I can't allow somebody to gain that much control. I don't know why, maybe it's self-preservation.
But even then, why? And why does this year leave me broken and bleeding on some street corner in some random city, and why do people whom I have given the label "friend" not respond to my broken and battered cries? Why, when it came down to it, was I ignored, discarded, thrown out to the trash?
And the funny thing is, here, I'm writing all this, and the people who really are described by the words will never read it. Some because they're too apathetic to care, some for some vaunted edge of "neutrality", some because, well, I talk about bad things.
The world isn't all sweetness and light, as I'm sure we're all discovering in a very painful way. But to try to force it to be, to forget it all, to be as changing as a chameleon or a changeling...in some ways it's good, but in other ways, it's very bad. If you're changing all the time, how are we to trust the words you say today when tomorrow comes?
But again, I'm wasting breath and words writing this, because again, the person it's directed to mostly is never going to read this. Because I talk about bad things, maybe you want to forget about me, too? It's the thing I'm most scared of, that you'll someday reject me because of this myopia of the soul.
Once this person told me one very important thing. "No matter how angry or upset you may be, never delete your writing directory." However, I turn around and watched this same friend delete her own words, because they simply weren't her anymore. Is the advice any less valid because you're involved?
As for the person with his vaunted "neutrality"...well, how am I supposed to trust that you care for me? If you're so concerned with staying neutral, why have friends at all? To have friends is to risk neutrality, and for somebody who's so concerned about the facts, I'm wondering why you're not using this one resource you have to understand me, to gather the facts as it was. You're university educated, I'm sure you had an English class or two that taught you to read between the lines and understand what the author is getting at...what are you so afraid of? Is it me?
But again, I'm wasting words on something that will never be read by the person I want it to get to. Forgotten on a street corner. Do they even remember I exist? It's been a week, do they even remember I exist? Or have I joined the hallowed list of names of people who once were, but never again will be?
Too many questions, not enough answers. My exile has simply brought more confusion to my life, as I step back and try to analyze...and I'm finding it ever more difficult to remember that you all once cared deeply and it's the thing that made me fall in love with the place. What changed? Why are we so different? What made the difference?
I think anybody that knows the answers should prolly be immediately awarded a Ph.D in either sociology or psychology...
anyway, just ramblings from my head. Feel free to ignore.