... who has apparently been eagerly awaiting a Plague post ever since he began grad school, and has since contacted me to request an update. However, rather than waxing the usual angry froth, tonight, I'll be waxing philosophical thanks to an early-term late-night discussion on etiquitte versus convenience. Essentially - where *does* one draw the line, light that bridge and stand to watch it burn? At what point does one inform a person who repeatedly does something of an irritable nature to please cease, and if so, how does one go about it? When and how is it appropriate to express anger - *is* there a right way?
But before I really begin... I want to ask you, my dear Proto-Lawyer, how far did you run? And I think you know what I mean by run... how far did you escape from it all? We both know we were never made to stay forever with those around us - and so, after four years and a college education... how far did you run from all of it? All the people you'd gotten close to... too close to... to know too much? How far was enough to separate yourself and stop the hurt? To know that you were there to see it all topple down, and to never have to face it again? How far would you run, have you run?
Because I want to know. One last year... and I will run. Put on a new face, forget, be forgotten. The bridges have already begun to burn, licking my heels at an alarming rate as I stride, as I hustle, as I ambulate, walk, and flail and run. Not more than four years ago, I burned these self same bridges and hardly glanced back. My third year only, and I had already begun to run. And I ran - ran to some promised kind of place, a place so different, where no bridges spanned - only solid, strong, roads of stone, suitably flame-retardant - strong enough to tie me to a whole, a greater infrastructure so vast and complete that never again would I need to run.
And yet, I can feel it changing again - like four years ago. Today, there are but few from then who remember me, and fewer still who would welcome me with open arms, warmth and even a remote attempt at understanding. There were a few who waved from the smoke of the burning bridges, a tacit promise that we would meet again someday, older and wiser. And so we did, and so we do continue to now. But then, I had a kind of control - and today few, if any, regrets of the bridges I'd then burned and given little more than a second glance before running. Now? As I feel that inevitable that I thought I would never have to feel again - I realize that I've got to run away... "just take my frikkin' degree and run as far as I can." But this time, the desperation is ever more present, ever more urgent, and it's now that I realize that I don't have the same luxury of choosing what to keep and what to burn - because there are no real roads here, as I thought, only bridges. And many of these bridges, too, have already gone up in flames. Some, I could not help. Some, I chose, in order to end the pain. Others would not maintain structurality without the other bridges present. This time, though, I look back, and I look hard... worrying that some day I might yet need them, and straining, perhaps to catch a glimpse of anyone who might wave back with a promise that we'll meet again at another time, another bridge... and I don't even know if anyone will.
So what is the difference this time? The difference, of course, was that I had held out for so long, running guided by a promise that I'd find a place, find people to belong with. And the more you care, the more you give, the more you will fear to lose when you run away.
I have one more year to go... and I will run. And I am so afraid. There are no promises of a great place for me this time. My bridges will go up in flames, because that is just the way of things - people whom I will regret losing, I will nonetheless lose, as I move on, running away from my problems and the carnage I've created out of everything I touch, because I didn't belong here either, though my god did I try.
I will lose nearly every bridge - some without regret, but others I will always feel pained to know that I may never see again. Do I regret losing the love and respect of people around me? Some. But it seems so much in my nature to let the asshole within dictate my actions, and not just my opinions. I spent three years fighting it - expending so much energy in the process, in the attempt to be a good person for once, that now I am exhausted, can't do it anymore, and just let it go. In a way, I'm terribly apologetic to those who thought more highly of me - I'm flattered that you believed that you'd find a better person in me, and regretful to have slipped below your standards. Now the tiny crowd from home, and perhaps an even smaller handful of folks here who for some reason, read this, know my secret. Not that most of you didn't know it already - wolf in sheep's clothing, asshole in disguise, a terrible person just trying to fit in to a world far better. And failing. It was never intended to be for the mainstream public eye, hell, I'dve gotten a far more public journal and named it something easily indentifable and reference-able, like Kim's Journal, and linked to it anything within reach, were I really out to show everyone the truth.
But now, too many people know the secret... and it's time again to run from something that's far bigger than me, and I don't mean angry mobs with pitchforks. In a way that'd almost be better - because standing from a far and knowing that there are those who endure me simply because they are better people... well, that's far more painful.
Michael, why do I always want to escape?
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