I've read portions of the Motorcycle Diaries.
I remember the part where Ernesto Guevara was with his sweetheart and contemplating whether to stay with her or continue on with his journey.
I've always thought if he stayed with her, there would not have been that revolution he was so known for.

I don't have that dilemma.
I don’t have to choose between you and the rest of the world.
You gave me up.
But surprisingly I am not sad.

Your love was a cage, and I only realized it when I got out.

I’ve always, always wanted to write about something with significance to the greater run of things and have always wondered why I just couldn’t seem to will myself to.
I realize now it was because you had almost taken monopoly of my thoughts.

I would be pondering the changes I had to make around the house to minimize our wasteful consumption, then in the next minute, I would be wondering what you were doing at that same moment and forget, hopefully just temporarily, what I was planning.

I would read about late-stage abortion and bawl like a lunatic for how people could stomach such cruelty, and I would plan on doing something, anything, that will get people’s notice and somehow move them into action. Then suddenly thoughts of you and your son would steal me from my justified desperation and divert my focus from something of importance to shallow imaginings of how I would be willing to rearrange my life to accommodate your "baggage."

Then here, I let a few days pass before continuing.
I was soon to learn we grieve for a lost love twice.
The first is easy. We could survive the lack of romance.
But losing the friend seems the difficult part.
Like a change in the other that we know we cannot learn to accept,
so we go on with the cutting off, to at least leave with the memories from happier times.

In retrospect, the whole incident was not so different from waking up with a hangover that was to be the longest yet, with a few abrasions from getting smashed by the skating area, at my age—and size,
which wasn’t even all that bad.
It occurs to me that perhaps it was a protest for how I wasn't feeling as bad as I expected myself to be.
After all, I had written a few days ago, "You gave me up. But surprisingly I am not sad."
But I cannot possibly work along this logic.
For if I were to physically feel as bad as I think I really do,
I’d be really, really ******-up.

And So I find myself asking these questions:
Was I wanting to die?
Was I angry?
Did I want to hurt—myself or others?
Was I just paying the price for having too much fun?
Or was it only to see that impossible odds can only be overcome through impossible means?
But sometimes even those don’t work still.

But maybe it was why I had wanted it in the first place.