Embarrassment
I don't do unrequited love. I'm worth more than that. All I need is one no. How many phrases do I wrap myself in, shrink-wrap myself in protective verbal gauze that sinks into my psyche. I thought I had defenses. She hurt, and I was there for her. She saw in me potential, a grocery list, something to be desired to be desired. And we tried, and failed.
That tears, rips, and wounds me far more than it ever did her. Now, she treads lightly upon the ground, still in pain but things going well. I'm still here, alone, and for once I don't want it.
I can't sleep. I try, but I awake too early, as if something's wrong. I always jerk awake, with the grim knowledge that something is out of place. As if it took me those hours to forget I had fallen asleep alone and that I shouldn't be. Reaching out in a dreamless rest, my eyes pull themselves open in shock, looking for her. I only wish that was hyperbole.
I'm getting tired of exaggeration. Once upon a time I revelled in it, intensity dripping from my every action so why not my every word as well? Everything will be the "Best Ever". Now, I'm stuck with a life that stinks of cliche after cliche. I only wish they weren't true.
Don't tell anyone I'm nice.
Of course not, you're a hater.
I'm cringing from love, it having hurt too much as of late. People have said "I wish I could fall in love like that" of me and I want to smash another glass in my hand and bleed all over them, screaming "You want THIS?" I feel deeply connected to others, even some I have just barely met, and I both need it and am terrified of it. Love is the source of all my woes now, so, like my painless healing hand, I pull back.
Animal instinct.
Comments
Love is either perfectly complex, or perfectly simple. It is either made up of a thousand different, barely fathomable quirks, connections, similarities, and differences, or it is a thread that just is.
Animals skulk away to nurse their wounds in silence. They shun contact and hide until they die or recover. But their wounds are not the same. That we run from love when it wounds us, hide away and wait for the wounds to heal like we do under no other circumstances, shows where our priorities are. Not even in survival so much as love.
Rebecca Borgstrom puts it like this:
It is hard to be everything that we should be. It is hard to be. It is hard to bloom. It is hard to grow. To live, we can do that; to stagger forward, we can do that; but to achieve everything that is within ourselves to be is as hard as a flower's life upon the moon.
And people are stronger together, and they are better together, and love is in the game theory of life more or less an optimal thing; but let us take a moment, nevertheless, to think on the wonder of this choice that some from their love will make: To pause, now and again, in their days and their weeks, in the endless struggle against the void, to help another bloom.
Posted by: Niko![[TypeKey Profile Page]](http://www.occult.ca/kurrs/nav-commenters.gif)
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June 28, 2005 2:06 AM
If you need somebody to talk to/bitch at, call me. I think most everybody else in Vancouver has my phone #.
Posted by: Nicholas | June 28, 2005 2:36 AM