Elusive and out of reach, it haunts. The need to know, really know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's finished. There is nothing left to feel, nothing left to do, nothing left to say, no more questions, nothing, nada, zilch. If there are remnants, it's unfinished, and if it's unfinished it can't be over, and if it's not over there's no moving on. Closure. That's what it's called. Pursued with relentless vigor, it slips and slides, evading our grasp.
I have a confession. Sometimes when I'm alone with nothing to do but think, I think of The Guy (the one who shouldn't make me cry). I think of all the things I want to tell him, things that he just has to know. How I felt, why I acted the way I did, why he was wrong, and various pieces of who what when where why and how. In my head, the conversation plays. What I will say, how he will respond. It unfolds beautifully, dramatically, complete with accusations, defenses, and heartfelt admissions, leaving me with an overwhelming urge to call him. I want to perform the script I've created. And at the end, it will all be out there, nothing left to disclose, and we can walk away either separately or together confident that we know all there is to know.
It's all pointless. If I call, he won't pick up the phone. And if he does pick up, I'll forget my lines, saying everything but what needs to be said. I'll talk around the issues, he'll be confused, I'll get frustrated, he'll have to go. Nothing will be solved, and on another day in another week I'll try to do it all over again with similar results. If there is one thing that three years of bullshit with the Idiot Who Made Me Cry taught me, it's that closure likes to be chased and rarely allows itself to be caught. Questions answered only lead to more questions to ask. Oftentimes, it's best to just Leave It The Fuck Alone.