It’s not you; it’s me.
From the beginning, I found you attractive.
Your exhilarating Theories of Everything
made my head spin, and oh, how you could
Talk. It was like listening to French,
the way you could make sanitation
workers on strike sound mmmm
so deliciously intellectual. For years
you served as my everything, making
sense and even hope out of a sloppy world.
The doubts first surfaced when I
began seeing art again. We had known each
other before, been very close in fact, and
I had almost made a full commitment
then turned away, afraid of the
demands that she might make on me.
I thought that art and I were done.
But something in the way you talked
about her—the certainty of your
Assessments, the closed circle of your
Judgments—resurrected my dormant desire.
I realized that for all your brilliance
and insights, you just didn’t get her;
You wanted to open her head, but
couldn’t feel the heart of her, or
maybe just wouldn’t let yourself.
And then I knew, you really didn’t
get me too, and worse, that in the end
knowing me mattered less to you than
encompassing all in an airtight Idea.
You lived, I realized, for a kind of clean
Completeness, where what couldn’t be
Defined and Ordered had to be ignored
as Noise. What you couldn’t count didn’t
count; what you couldn’t name evaporated.
And worst of all, you theorized away any
Pain—others, yours—you didn’t want to feel.
Don’t get me wrong; I see the glimmering
Power in what you do. I’ll never view the
universe again the way I saw it before I
met you, and that’s a good thing. I don’t
regret and wouldn’t trade our time
together, and you should keep on doing
what you do. But it’s no long where I
want to dwell. I’m going back to art and
to myself: that messy, contradictory, and
Chaotic creature I shed because being
him felt too too much like Living, and I
preferred the power of Not Dying instead.
I hope that we can still be friends; from
time to time I’d like to talk. I know that
you face tough circumstances now, and I’ll
always be rooting for you. So this is less
goodbye than au revoir, hasta luego. And
hoping that, someday, a part of you will
find a way to this ancient place where the
un-generalizable particulars, the sharp and
slippery crispness of existence, the blues
and its pain, un-theorized but explosively
experienced, still breathes, beyond the need
to be explained.