This is how it'll always go I guess. You always so far ahead, me wishing to keep up, always wishing, only wishing. We steal whatever time there is to be happy, but when all is considered and the tide of things moves us on, this time is never enough, never close to enough.
I am wise enough to know that I'm far from important (when have I ever doubted?) and that no one without a blood connection with me would sacrifice more than a little for my sake. I know that some things simply cannot change, that you are you and you have so much left of life for you; the world is your oyster but the pearl is for only the hands and eyes of one; that I am I, who will always be so little and so insignificant, no matter how hard I try. There is a price to being talented beyond your years, and that is that there will always be people waiting to wring more from you, each time, every time, time and time again, year by year, routine, even though it's not enough, never near enough.
And I can't comfort myself with the words 'it will end', because it won't. It'll be the same forever, always you, you, there on the pedestal of gods, called to other places, called far away, called to be great and to show something for your greatness, chased around the world by nameless glories--to places where I'll never see you again. And always me, me wilting in the garden I thought would grow but died and murdered me along with it. Always me, the one who cannot keep up, who can't be the same, simply can't be the same no matter how I wish I were.
It won't end. It's simple now; a matter of too much to do and too little time to ration, too huge a possibility to throw away, too huge a glory to forsake, too much of an obligation. Then next time, it'll be those things again, but not just with time but also with love.
I wish it were easier to let you be away and apart. Whenever we part, do you know how I feel? Do you not know that wistful smile? When I gaze up at you and smile, it is not for bliss; it is for regret that it will end so soon. My heart wants desperately to hold, to hold on. Because the time is never enough, never near enough; I stop every second, every petal of our time together, before it can slip through my fingers, wrack it for every drop, strip it of every last iota of happiness I can find. Yet never find enough for myself. Tear it to shreds and tear myself apart, and refuse to let go even then.
I would love to accuse you of not caring. I would love to tell you to leave, for this. Because you have a talent, you subject yourself to this benchmarking, these competitions, these things that make you look like some genius, things you don't even have to do. Why? Didn't you say you don't care? Didn't you say achievements don't matter to you?
But I know that, inexorably, I would not have you sacrifice all you can have and all you could be--the glory of your future--just because I am selfish. I don't expect it either. I don't mean to sound like you do it on purpose, like you're any less than forced--by circumstances and the future and the pressures of the world--to do these things. For your sake. For your good. It makes sense, every bit.
Maybe I do wish you valued our time more, then. It's just the same thing for you, as if we had all day to ourselves, when in fact we have such few hours. You enjoy it; enjoyment isn't the same. You waste it. Waste it still. I wish it meant as much to you as it did to me. I wish you'd treasure it, not just enjoy it. I wish you'd hurt as much as me when you need to go. Because I would die with this heartache.
Maybe I do hate knowing that you're only taken away every day because you are gifted. I hate that thought; I hate it to the core. I should be happy for your gift. I should be glad, and proud to be close to a person so brilliant. I want to be. But if it only takes you away, how can I?
Can't you see, I'm suffering to know I'm obliged to let you go?
I am wise enough to know that I'm far from important (when have I ever doubted?) and that no one without a blood connection with me would sacrifice more than a little for my sake. I know that some things simply cannot change, that you are you and you have so much left of life for you; the world is your oyster but the pearl is for only the hands and eyes of one; that I am I, who will always be so little and so insignificant, no matter how hard I try. There is a price to being talented beyond your years, and that is that there will always be people waiting to wring more from you, each time, every time, time and time again, year by year, routine, even though it's not enough, never near enough.
And I can't comfort myself with the words 'it will end', because it won't. It'll be the same forever, always you, you, there on the pedestal of gods, called to other places, called far away, called to be great and to show something for your greatness, chased around the world by nameless glories--to places where I'll never see you again. And always me, me wilting in the garden I thought would grow but died and murdered me along with it. Always me, the one who cannot keep up, who can't be the same, simply can't be the same no matter how I wish I were.
It won't end. It's simple now; a matter of too much to do and too little time to ration, too huge a possibility to throw away, too huge a glory to forsake, too much of an obligation. Then next time, it'll be those things again, but not just with time but also with love.
I wish it were easier to let you be away and apart. Whenever we part, do you know how I feel? Do you not know that wistful smile? When I gaze up at you and smile, it is not for bliss; it is for regret that it will end so soon. My heart wants desperately to hold, to hold on. Because the time is never enough, never near enough; I stop every second, every petal of our time together, before it can slip through my fingers, wrack it for every drop, strip it of every last iota of happiness I can find. Yet never find enough for myself. Tear it to shreds and tear myself apart, and refuse to let go even then.
I would love to accuse you of not caring. I would love to tell you to leave, for this. Because you have a talent, you subject yourself to this benchmarking, these competitions, these things that make you look like some genius, things you don't even have to do. Why? Didn't you say you don't care? Didn't you say achievements don't matter to you?
But I know that, inexorably, I would not have you sacrifice all you can have and all you could be--the glory of your future--just because I am selfish. I don't expect it either. I don't mean to sound like you do it on purpose, like you're any less than forced--by circumstances and the future and the pressures of the world--to do these things. For your sake. For your good. It makes sense, every bit.
Maybe I do wish you valued our time more, then. It's just the same thing for you, as if we had all day to ourselves, when in fact we have such few hours. You enjoy it; enjoyment isn't the same. You waste it. Waste it still. I wish it meant as much to you as it did to me. I wish you'd treasure it, not just enjoy it. I wish you'd hurt as much as me when you need to go. Because I would die with this heartache.
Maybe I do hate knowing that you're only taken away every day because you are gifted. I hate that thought; I hate it to the core. I should be happy for your gift. I should be glad, and proud to be close to a person so brilliant. I want to be. But if it only takes you away, how can I?
Can't you see, I'm suffering to know I'm obliged to let you go?
