The cold and dreary cell

God. Feeling so bad today.

Watching a movie right now — there's a quiet scene with a husband and his wife. They are just lying together on a bed. He's still dressed in a suit from work, he's just gotten home. They are just whispering to each other. It's touching, soft, intimate...

It makes me sad. That's the kind of scene I always imagined with the Swan. God...

Father's Day is Sunday. Will I ever be a dad? I doubt it. My life is so meaningless, so hopeless. I am so far below the Swan, I feel so little and insignificant, like a piece of dust to be swept away. I am so small I am invisible to her.

But I wanted to be something to her. I wanted so much to be with her, to make her my wife, to build a family with her. She made me see so far beyond myself. She made me want to do everything, to scale mountains and leap across canyons to provide for her.

Nothing and nobody else seems worth it. Yes, it's early in the morning, and I'm tired and I'm not thinking straight. But damn it all, nothing I've ever written was more true. I would have given everything I had for her, and I have never been able to say that about any other woman.

And yet: I am nothing to her. Or at the very least, a warm and fleeting memory — nothing more. And if I told her how I feel? I would look worse than pathetic. I would not be a man. Because men are never allowed to show these things.

That's the thing that I like about being able to write here: I don't have to pretend to be strong. I don't have to pretend as if nothing affects me. Every day of my life, I have to wear that goddamn mask: I am not allowed to hurt. I am not allowed to cry. I am not allowed to be weak, to feel sadness, to feel damaged and vulnerable, ever. Even though every fiber of my being would love to run to her and collapse in tears and beg her to love me...

Oh, Christ, the image of myself doing that sickens me. I want to vomit out all that weakness. Shit, who the fuck could ever love a man so broken and pathetic?

And yet...Yet there's no way to tell her how I feel. How to tell ANYBODY how I feel. Shit. Listen, posterity, or whoever is reading this: Do you want to know what it feels like to be a man? Or at least, what it feels like to be THIS man? It feels like being locked in a supermax prison, under the constant watch of surly oxen guards. There is a whole life of emotion and feeling churning within you, but it can never — ever — be let out. Every outward motion is a calculated act to please your jailers. The slightest flash of your inner life earns you a stern and hard beat-down. Not a physical beat-down. Just a spiritual one. Just an overwhelming blast of social regard that YOU ARE LESS THAN A MAN. You are not worthy of the attention of any woman who is worth a damn, or the respect of any man of consequence. You are the scraps, and you are to be fed scraps. Some misguided souls might offer you sympathy, but strong and beautiful souls — souls like the Swan — will view with pity, at best, but most likely with just contempt.

So you chain your sorrows. You lock up your tears. You burn your emotions until they are black and cauterized and the only outward signs of feeling you betray are dull, stoic indifference. And in that you find strength. And that will elevate you, right? That will redeem your suffering? There is a final reckoning that will make it all balance out, right? Isn't that true? But even if it isn't: Hard. Cold. DO. NOT. EVER. BREAK.

Especially at the hands of a woman.

I wish you knew, Swan. I wish you knew how hard I have to fight to be nothing to you. This weight is far too much for me to carry, and if I must carry it for much longer, my back will snap and I will collapse. And that will be the end of me.

Oh, do not blame yourself. It will not be your fault. How could you ever know? You can't be responsible for things hidden from you, for worlds that have been carefully concealed and lifted away to avoid ever burdening you. I carried away those burdens from you because, shit...because I was ashamed, of course, but also because I loved you, damn it all. I hope you never read these words, Swan, because I don't ever want you to carry the kind of weight I have had to carry for the Dove. I do not want you to carry any weight at all. I want you to live and die as gossamer as when I first kissed you.

But I must write, Swan, and even if you never read this, I cannot keep these feelings within me. There must be an outlet for me. My wounded heart must scream its pain, and must bawl like a fallen, broken, damaged child. The universe must fucking know! Somewhere out there, some silent observer must be rattled to the very teeth with my suffering, even while my face remains a bar of solid iron!

Damn it, I feel, I cry, I hurt so very much! And I can love with the depth of the world, if only I could find a soul to receive it! But I am locked in darkness with my echoes, and I am growing to hate the sound of my own voice. The knife to slit its throat is yet dull; in days to come, it will be very sharp.

Will others hurt? Yes. But I shall carry this heavy weight no longer, and who knows? On the far shore may live many other Swans, and many other bright days. I don't see them from where I stand now. But there is only one raft to ferry me hence, and the toll jingles louder in my pocket every single day.

Happy Father's Day, Swan. And I hope you have many Happy Mothers Days. I wish to God in Heaven I could be a part of them.