Hamartia

Sixth

My dearest,

And I still call you that, for why speak anything but the truth. Oh, but what a word, how it hardly does you justice, never did, never can now (and how many times yet will I remind myself of that very fact?) God damn, I love you, Phil, and I could never hold you close enough to keep you safe. Perhaps that was the problem, though. Did I try too hard? Or not hard enough?

Perhaps that is the reason we could never have worked out. We simply weren't deep enough with each other; for all that I loved you, how deep did I really dig, I find myself wondering now, questioning after all this if I ever really knew you at all. All the secrets you had and thoughts only you knew; you never shared anything truthful like that with me and maybe it's just because I never asked or maybe it's because you just didn't trust me with your soul. It was out of my reach.

Maybe you thought I'd never understand but I wanted to, I always did. I find myself thinking now, perhaps we just weren't in that sort of relationship, the type where we know each other inside and out. Sometimes people just aren't but they can still work, right, but maybe everything was always too superficial between us for true love. I don't know, oh but I do and I know we weren't, even for all the secrets you apparently did keep from me. Like your depression.

I wish it was something as simple as that, then it wouldn't hurt quite as much to have to blame you, though I know it's your fault once again. You and your saint like traits have failed me because I know the true case wasn't you were perfect: you just cared too much about everyone else to ever delve deep enough into yourself and your own problems to realise you needed help in the first place. You'd rather help the entire world first before you helped yourself and you would certainly always put me before you. We would always talk about me, me, me; you always wanted to waste your time giving me your best advice on how to get through a rough time. You encouraged me to talk but you had a tough outer shell yourself I could never open up. I never knew any of your problems and at the time I was naive enough to believe you were too perfect to have any. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for thinking you were perfect if in the end that's what drove you away from me.

What kills me the most now is knowing everything, all the signs, must have been there the whole time but neither of us could recognise them, especially me when I should have. What are friends for otherwise? The devil was right there in the details but I was shallow and spent my whole life loving you without ever really seeing you. I never looked closely enough, afraid I might find some fault that I'd have to question my love for and god, is that not the most selfish thing anyone could ever do? You are gone and it is my fault, it is and I won't pretend like I have anyone other to blame. Yet even with all that guilt somehow I still find it in me to wonder what just one little person was supposed to do had he known. I've never known how to be as great as you, Phil, never. I am insignificant. Certainly not significant enough in your life to have made much difference.

I am but a single grain of sand on a beach, while you, you are like the waves in the ocean. You are powerful; when you come crashing down you disrupt my whole world. Everything I knew, it all changes, you move me but then, as quickly as you come, you're gone. I am left the same grain of sand only now my position has totally changed, been thrown upside down and sideways, backwards then forwards, dragged through space and time, before everything that surrounds me, each and every other grain of sand that represents a small but significant part of my world is shifted. It is all different every time. In and out you flow, each time similar but never the same twice and never lasting for long, just long enough to knock me off balance once I've settled, leaving me struggling to regroup. That was how you always made me feel: breathless, like I was submerged, drowning because you never staying still enough for me to learn how to swim.

It's stupid, but I thought it a nice metaphor from which I can only begin to comprehend the effect you had on me. You are the waves and now the tides gone out and I'm left to dry in a harsh sun.

Love,

Your Dan, as insignificant as a grain of sand for all the help I could give you.