Notes From Roman

I threw away all of Roman's hand written notes to me in my fury over my confrontation with the other woman. They wound up in our apartment complex's dumpster because they were the closest thing to his heart that remained after his death. And since he was not around to account for his actions, disregarding his letters into the filth of the trash gave me a sense of restitution at the time. Looking back now, perhaps my actions were too hasty. Though I decided then and there, that his notes to me would never lift my spirit again like they once had. To that end, I still agree. Nonetheless, words from his personal notebooks survived my fit of anger. I came across two of his notes this morning and thought I'd share them before continuing on.

Looking at Roman's notes now, still brings up sadness for me. But also, they strike me as almost prophetic in a way. Further, they tell of a more vulnerable side that Roman rarely shared. Yet they also seem disconnected and abstract to a degree. It's that disconnect which highlights the difficulty he had with communication. 

His penmanship was exquisite, though leafing through his notebooks reveals page upon page where he practiced each letter repeatedly and meticulously. Roman's genius made things appear easy to the outside observer, and he held tightly to that positive perception from others. Yet, his notebooks tell another story.

He was indeed human.

Brilliant handwriting was clearly something he coveted and worked for. Likewise, the fact that he kept the first draft of the note he later gave to me, only supports that notion. Roman worked at appearing gifted.

True, Roman was very bright. He was also detached, and in life he claimed to embrace both with ease...Though in truth, he manufactured much of people's views of him. I believe he did that because he did not know who he really was.

Nowadays, I also think that his lack of self awareness was at the core of his inability to communicate effectively and was the primary cause for my inability to reach him. Roman was a moving target.

He was a target for which he himself could not hit, let alone anyone else - least of all me. And at the time of his death, he was still trying to understand. Today, in reading these short notes, the moving target I sought for so long appears in fuzzy focus...Like a snapshot taken of a person in motion.

In his own words, these notes allow Roman to briefly touch on what I have been explaining to readers all along. Written in 2003, they are ironically meaningful and honest. What's more, they are what remains and they deserve to be shared.   

The first draft: Part of a note written to me after an argument

"This kitchen is hot, even at night. I kind of wanted to share that with you...Here I find myself wide awake, writing in the darkness, very much missing you...I know you are right up in the bed, but for some reason I know it would be nice just to talk with you right now or even just give you a kiss. I would just stand by the bed, but I am afraid after the movie, that if you saw me just standing there watching you, you might not like it so much. But I miss you, and writing will have to substitute for you right now...I miss you but I'll write instead. 

Given the darkness in the house I remember when I was afraid of the dark. I felt alone then. Not lonely, just alone, like there was no protection from me just becoming part of the dark. 

"Turn off the lights, my ass." My mom used to freak me out when she would say that, but off go the lights and the world would vanish.

I think that's why I am so friggin afraid of blindness."

Roman's detached concept of time:

"What time is it? 

I find myself wondering often. 

It does not really matter...time has no meaning save that which we apply to it...and I apply nothing because I do not apply myself. 

It is quite possible that I am, at best a fool with a preconceived condition for self loathing. But I feel this to be inaccurate, for I loath no one and I do not hate myself for thinking such thoughts. 

Times such as these were no different than any other times which make the nothing at all in standard practice of this word...If that truly be anything, or nothing, does not matter...but for all time. 

And in love, so I felt alive...this due in no small part that during this period of nothing, I was not dead."