Masochism

You seemed like a completely different person with her; gentler, and so much more in love. 

The way you communicated, and the way you missed her so. The tenderness in your words, the way you spoke. The way the two of you seemed to be able to understand each other in a way I never was able to understand you. The way both your families seemed to blend in effortlessly in the same social circles. In all my time with you I don’t know if you ever made the same effort you seemed to make with her. 

I kept seeing images of you and her in my mind, and it looked so much more right than the two of us standing together.

Part of me felt like that was another you, a boy from the past, one less marred by the anger and frustration that came with the trials of life. 

Part of me felt like she got the best of you, a part of you that was still filled with youthful hope and dreams and ideals of the future before you became jaded. 

Part of me looked at your past, and wondered why you would let all of that go, considering how much your life seemed filled with meaningful friendships and activities. 

I wondered if you changed, and you were merely settling for me because you had shunned a life you once had, and wished no further contact with it., and I was merely someone who had fallen into this new life of yours. I wondered if you had chosen what was easy, rather than fight for something that would have been so much harder. 

You said that you planned your whole life around her. I doubt you would go that far for me. 

I don’t know. I am not used to feeling like I need someone more than he needs me. 

Perhaps this is just a reflection of the inadequacies I feel regarding our relationship, and I am merely using the past to throw up excuses for my own insecurities, looming in the background and threatening to swallow me and our relationship with it. Perhaps it is my own frustrations fixating in the past, and the feeling that I cannot break free of these shackles of doubt. 

Too much information, too much knowledge about the past haunts me in a way that I wish I could be rid of. 

It tires me.