Photo by André Foucteau
Rarely before have so many of the qualities I admire been wrapped up in one person.
Not my words, someone else’s; in that global sea of thought and feeling, the internet. I thought of you almost immediately- surely the ultimate compliment, but added my own tacky addendum to the statement.
Rarely before have so many of the qualities I admire been wrapped up in one person, who I also want to fuck.
Actually, surely that’s the ultimate compliment. For me that’s love, in my feeble, near-non-existent experience. Finding someone who has all those qualities you so highly prize in a friend, who also has a sexual pull. Pulling power, I believe you lads call it. Of course I’ve read, heard and seen ever so many accounts of love that shit on my somewhat unromantic notion. Accounts that use words like transcendent, undying, earth-shattering, irrevocable—love as a born-again religious experience.
I was raised religious, in a soft-core, happiness and hot cross buns kind of way, yet as long as I can remember I just couldn’t swallow it (religion that is, the buns went down a treat). My politicised discontent with religion would come much later, but sitting there as an eight year old it was the simple fact that it all seemed implausible, and I sure as hell wasn’t feeling the rapture that helps distract from the implausibilities.
So maybe I’m just wired a little differently from those people, and maybe it’s the reason I don’t love with such reckless abandon, excuse the cliche. Maybe if I loved you with some strange, alien passion I could put away my overwhelming, unassailable pride and jeopardise my nonchalance in order to tell you, rather than just sidling up to you every time I’m drunk enough to delude myself I’m being subtle. Maybe then I’d demand more, instead of settling for those occasional drunken encounters and the glib, meaningless, sub-text loaded small-talk the morning after.
But I don’t. To be sincere is to be vulnerable, which you clearly have fewer qualms about than I do, if your drunken disclosures are anything to go by. On such nights I sit there, desperately moderating my behavior, affecting my every utterance, praying that in my act I’ll finally hit on the right combination of sexy and clever and cute and funny that makes you want more from me. Never mind the fact that every time you pour your heart out, it’s the flaws and hurts that make me want you more; for some reason I still think the right façade of perfection is the key to hooking you in.
Which is working out fucking great for me so far.
Unlike you, I have no excuses to be this messed up, apart from the possibility I cling to; that everyone is. There are no landmark catastrophes to leave me insecure, no bad experiences to account for my complete inability to develop proper intimacy and my terror of rejection.
My romantic history is inappropriately labeled, there’s very little romance there. Just a series of unrequited infatuations, running parallel to a series of meaningless hook ups, like a set of train tracks.
I read some stupid thing online about how sad it is that parallel lines have so much in common, but never meet. Sometimes I think I’ve finally done the impossible and brought those two lines to the point of overlapping, when I get you to myself for the night.
Then comes the light of day, and all too clearly I can see that those tracks are still unyielding iron, maintaining a safe distance as they continue unwaveringly on their course.
I voiced the faintest shadow of my feelings for you to a friend, and his response was that I was intimidating. Your confidence, you’re so self-assured, that can be intimidating for guys. I believe it’s called irony.
One feigns confidence to hide a fear of being unloved, resulting in one having neither love nor self-confidence. All the while keeping the entire world entirely convinced that not only is one hugely self-confident, but also that one has no real desire to find love. This is how my logic works. It’s baffling to me that I haven’t found inner happiness. Luckily I have outward happiness in abundance, ask anyone who knows me.
Wouldn’t that just be the ultimate humiliation—admitting to the fact that not only am I unable to lock down a person to make me happy, I’m also unable to do it for myself in his absence. What a failure, what a joke. And you call yourself a feminist.
There’s this argument I have with myself sometimes:
Maybe you should get help.
Like counseling or some shit? Why?
To help you open up and lose your fear of rejection.
Why would I want to do that?
Then you could open up without being afraid of rejection.
But then I would probably open up.
And then I might get rejected.
And that’s fucking scary, are you out of your mind?
And so I don’t change, I keep running away. I believe it’s called making tracks.
Written by Anonymous