Was I as bad as you said? If I was, why did you stay with me? Why didn't you tell me? I thought we were being honest. I thought you were honest with me. I thought I was honest with you. Did I lie to you? Did you lie to me? Did you change your mind? Did I change my mind?
How did I hurt you? Did I hurt you? (I. Hurt you. I hurt you.)
I didn't want to hurt you.
I never wanted to hurt you.
I loved you . . . I think. I don't remember. I don't remember any of it. Do you remember? Is that why you hate me? (Do you hate me?)
I've gone over it all . . . all four months. Over and over and over. And I've wished I could change things, and played out how it might have happend, and played out how it did happen, and . . . and I can't tell them apart anymore.
How much of it was real, and how much of it did I make up afterwards?
Did we really laugh at the "volume lighting" and "particle effects" while looking at the sun shining in through a window and dust? Did I really lie on a couch when she told me that she didn't think it would work out? Did she really hug me after I showed her more of myself than I've shown almost anyone? Did we hug later, and not leave each other's arms for hours? Did I really say I'd go to the UW for her, if that's what she wanted? Did she really say that no, I didn't have to?
Did she really curl up with me, trembling, that night? Did I really do everything I could have to see her? Did I really hold her and try to make her feel better?
What did she say when I left? Did she say "I love you" . . . or did I imagine it?
And was I really there for her as much as I could have been?
I don't know the answer. You don't know the answer. Maybe you know a few of them, maybe you were there for a bit of it . . . but you don't know. Because you see me now, and you hear me say this, and you don't realize it's not the same person. Because the person of a year and a half ago is dead. Completely. He couldn't survive with what he thought he did, so he didn't. The Zorba you know now is not the same person as who it was that loved her. Yes, I still love her. I always will. And I'll wear my scars in public so nobody else makes the same mistake. But it's a different person.
And with a different person come different memories. I remember some of it, some fleeting fragments, and some of it I don't remember . . . and some of it I remember twice, in two different ways, and I don't know which is real.
I've played it so many times that it's gone.
I don't even have the memories anymore.
(but I've said this before. I've said all of this before. I'm on an endless track around and around, and tomorrow I'll be better and I'll smile and I'll tell people I'm okay now, and it's true, as long as you mean "now" to be that instant. And I won't be again. And it will pass also.)
(not only does my happiness mean nothing anymore, but neither does my sadness.)
I'll be okay. I'll survive. I'll pull through.
I always do.