Some people are never meant to be in-love. I believe I am one of those people. I can love, but never have it reciprocated. Just for clarity, I am not talking about the love that one has for a child, sibling, or parent. I am referencing the head-over-heels-kick-you-in-the-chest-committing love that one can experience for someone outside of the immediate. It feels immensely selfish and illogical to expect anyone to feel that way for me, so I do not really know why I am so beaten down and despairing by its current actuality. Maybe feeling that way for someone else makes it tangible for oneself. Action and reaction, cause and effect, or perhaps I just want to be loved by the woman that I love. Even looking at those words I feel pathetic. I will just say that regardless of all that, I feel less than nothing at this moment in time…
… Actually, that’s not true. I do feel. I feel I am inconsequential, I am inanimate pixels, I am benign words on a screen, I am an uninspiring avatar, I am a name, I am an automaton, I am derivative, I am boring, I am a blank sheet of paper covered in dust, I am the discarded chaff, I am the unregistered glance, I am the unspurred ambition, I am the dying thought, I am the heat death of the Universe.
I do have some hope residing though, or maybe I hope I have hope residing. I am only half way through the average lifespan. Perhaps during the next half with all its failing health and lament someone will hold me tight, dance slowly with me, look into my eyes and smile, link their fingers with mine, and endure in their imagination; just like I want to do right now. That’s the residing hope… or a necessary delusion required to carry on. I suppose that hope is comparable to the fantasy and dreams of a shared future that we both once indulged in.
I hate this post. I hate its vanity. I hate its narcissism. I hate its reality.