There’s all that garbage about the repeating nature of history and all that. Has anyone confirmed if all of that is real? Maybe I should be the one. Because I’ve never had that déjà vu feeling, where you’re certain that this moment has happened before. It’s an eerie few seconds and then it passes. I’m not even sure if I think it’s real.
The point is, who really knows. Who knows if history is the repeating sort of thing or not. I mean, who are we to say what happened here before we came around, anyway. The point is, I can talk about me, and I’m more self-aware now than I once was. That’s the point.
No. The point is, it’s happening again. Whether this is history or just my story stuck on a scratched CD, it’s all happening all over again. I’m standing with the hostess at a sports bar; I’m the gal from out of town, asking for obscure hockey games on one of their twelve hundred televisions. They say no and I’m not sure how to follow. I’m hanging on words from one o’clock in the morning as I fall asleep hoping for holiness to overwhelm me. If I fall, I fall to foolishness, not ignorance.
You see, there was distance and drama in this abbreviated melodrama, but my heart was always for him. There was a man and he left and he’s back and I’m stuck. I think that’s the point, that I’m stuck. Stuck between here and him, want and should, go and never move, what else is really new? It’s all exactly the same. The same rotating and uneven schedule of wanting good and wanting more.
And it isn’t archaic Evangelical b______, either. The point is, I don’t have another motive. I do not love so that— I just love, so there. Some of my kind love so that, and I’m not one of that kind. Is that the point—that I’m not one of that kind? No. The point is that I just love him. The point is, love love love. That’s all. No more, no less. No strings, no consequence. He could leave me, hate me, tear me up. He could hide from me for a year or more. He did. But the point is, love love love. That’s all I have to give him. It’s real and it’s me and it’s inexplicably tied to the fact that I’m madly in love with a Savior, a King, the giver of all things.
He promises not to hide in big cities, behind women, but he promises after two rounds of beer. The point is not, still, that his words stitch me up. Or not that he’s done me wrong. We aren’t regular, we’re abnormal, your standard uncouple. The point is that I’m giving grace. If my God is my God, then this one gift will not end. I’ll give on both emotional ends. The point is or is not the way that I’ve missed him, the things that remind me of our time. Or that I’m proud of who he’s become. The point, I suppose, doesn’t matter so much. The point is getting lost in the details.
Whether or not it’s all happening again, the point is I wish both were true. The point really is that love is so American; it can’t be relied on for anything. These truths, I’m not finding in the way that I feel. The point is these feelings can lie.