Sacred vs profane

What is love?

Love hurts but pain feels good.

Is that her? Sitting over there in the library at noon sharp on a Friday? It can’t be her. That dirty-blonde hair sticking out of a black cap in a meta-pony tail. It can’t be her. I won’t say her name. I can’t, it’s too hard. Every time I think of her it’s good. Where is the bad? It’s not there. I’ve turned a past relationship into a fairy-tale. Why, because I hate myself and I want myself to suffer. That’s the only explanation, discontented masochist at heart. Goddammit.

I see myself driving up her driveway when her parents are out of town. It’s more a dream than memory. That was a great weekend. We fogged up the sliding glass door of her room so much, we could’ve done that scene from titanic with the hand on the window. I remember seeing that scene in kindergarten and knowing what it meant. I’ve always had a sex-crazed mind. Can’t escape it.

I should’ve tried harder to be friends with her. That’s what my relationships lack. Friendship. You start out with I think you’re attractive. Then you open your mouths and try to seduce each other. Then you find the bond of the sexual energy or common interests. Those commonalities become a friendship and sex and friendship is bliss. Bliss is good. Genuinely caring about the other person the same way you do a best friend you’ve known since grade school. It takes a fraction of the time but it becomes so much stronger and meaningful. Don’t think I’ve crossed that last threshold.

Guys think, “I totally manipulated her. I got her in bed the first night or second date.” “My bitter naive friend, success probably stemmed from her knowing exactly what she was doing.” How many girls do guys bed on the first or second date and never take out again? Not as many as they date. Every girl we pile on top of our conquests’ is weight we’ve hollowed out of our empathy and basic emotional well-being. Some guys can’t and never will know this.

Guys are obvious and girls are subtle, and they play our games like virtuosos. Every girl I ever liked has been smarter than me, but I convinced them that I was more intelligent with deceit and unfounded unbounded confidence. Works like a charm.

It can’t be her over there. She’s in Colorado at school. She’s pretty so she’s probably joined a sorority and there have probably been frat guys since me dwarfing me. We had a lengthy conversation about it. I could tell she hated me for being so realistic. It’s rough and tough and unfair, but maybe she’s happy. Let her be happy. She was an angel to put up with what she did.

Something I learned about women who are in that zone with you: they learn to accept your lies and faults. We’re more obvious than we think we are. We think wow she’s dumb. She totally missed that inconsistency in the explanation to where I was last night. She didn’t. She looked away and thought about something sweet I said previously to mask the visual disappointment and hurt my lying caused her. But I missed that because I was enamored by my own bravado in pulling the wool over her eyes. Blinded by vanity.

After a few lies they start to get the picture. My advice is stay truthful. Can’t hurt unless her ass actually does look fat in that dress. Never entirely truthful. That’s a good way to end up alone or with crazy. She never looked anything but perfect.

She’s not a play thing. She’s not your pleasure toy. She’s a person and she’ll pick up on how you see her after enough time has past to render a finely tuned judgment. It’ll probably be dead on and in key, but they won’t tell you so you’ll never really know.

I remember laughing a few times with girls I was seeing as they spoke of these pesky romantic types who thought grand gestures could magically change things between them and the girl I was seeing just to… I remember thinking what saps. What creeps. What wimps. Now I’ve taken on that role because I’ve tread into the abyss of love. No escape. Unrequited love. Well, there’s one way. Transference. Putting it all on someone else. It’s not easy though. It’s like docking a cruise ship for the first time. How did I end up here?

There is no such thing as a dumb person. We all have crazy amounts of depth because we are all the same. We try to put others in boxes for ego’s sake, so our feeble minds can try to understand somebody polarly different in comparison. I’ve been thinking about myself for as long as I can remember, so it’s hard to consider somebody else.

They learn to love us. They understand this area better because it’s what it’s all about to them. To us it’s all about bedding as many as we can until our deep buried instincts awaken with that first shovel-full digging towards our soul. And then we understand that face that likes to sit and just stare looking, searching, knowing what to look for, and believing it’s there behind our pale vapid eyes of complete incapability and unwillingness to reciprocate. But they miss it because they’re blinded by what they think slowly but surly’s happening. But we men are good liars. Otherwise, we couldn’t get as far as we did.

The major problems come when our lying ability plateaus. The lies pile up until it all collapses on itself in truth. Then they realize, they know, and they run away in disgust because their instincts led them to choose a hollow shell that took six months to penetrate and shattered into a million pieces of wasted time, bankrupt emotions, and possible golden-honey-love dashed! That’s why they refuse to talk to us afterword, because it’s more painful than not fooling themselves again. We guys know if we can get them on the line there’s a chance. They know it too. They’re right and we’re wrong until we’re the one tapping on the shell. She thinks I’m crazy. Bat shit. Damn.

I’m the biggest jerk in the world. I deserved the treatment she slapped me with in the end. But I can’t jump over this knot inside myself. She’s got me all tangled up inside. Her personality was off the charts but that’s hard to notice when you think you’re the shit and you deserve what she’s graciously giving you. You don’t, you never do, unless you’re on the same track with her. You never are. It’s like expecting two complete strangers to keep the exact same pace on a run.

I cheated on her every chance I got. Not because I didn’t really like her, but because I didn’t know what really like felt or meant until her. Every girl I kissed that wasn’t her yeilded the same new response. This girl doesn’t matter. Sex with her wouldn’t come near to my girlfriend. She’s not worth it even if she’s better. New thought patterns arose from within making me question my entire world due to this new shaking of the old one’s foundations to crumbling dust. I thought about how I wished they would turn into her. She was all I wanted. Nothing more nothing less.

After she dumped me I found out what love was. It’s the feeling of loss after the bubble pops. Being away from the heat you’re used to. Unless you’re lucky enough to notice why smiling is suddenly second nature and colors are brighter. I didn’t see it. There’s no look to a feeling unless a mirrors in front of you, even then you’ll probably miss it. Before and after emotional health aren’t clear to you if you’re a visual learner. You have to instinctively know how to feel it. I know this because I know now I missed it.

Time spent apart harshy painfully settling is the definition of love.

Must be why the girl in a dying fire of a relationship always says to the guy “I think we need a break.” Shes testing the past plot development of the guys actions in this climatic moment of do or die. She’s curious to find out if she’ll miss him enough to return to him. In films after a break the couples run into each others arms and aplogize in unison in that clever cliche language of love. Doesn’t and can’t always happen that way in real life.

I miss her so much it hurts. It’s like a bruise I’ve never recovered from. Every time love, the city, or anything or any place that reminds me of her comes up in my mind it reels; as that spot of tenderness sends pain all through the area I accidentally hit/tread upon. Just like a bruise. Bubbles can’t bruise.

Relationships are like bubbles. Delicate pretty things just floating around, hoping, a fly, bird, or leaf doesn’t happen on their happy random path. A tiny particle of sand or dust can take out a bubble. Fragile things.

Love isn’t the feeling when you’re in it the first time. It’s the feeling when you step out. It’s like lodging in a cabin in the snowy winter and stepping outside away from the heat into the shocking cold; and realizing what’s going on in the cozy stacked timber isn’t the world. It’s a façade created and forged for survival by heat. But you took it for granted and didn’t take notice. Now the house has collapsed on itself, and it’s useless. Useless as self-pity. Now you’re stuck in five below and it stings; and wakes you from the happy comfort you were just in, but totally unaware of. An icy unshakable uncomfortability. You assumed it. Love is loss. Its something you don’t know exists until it’s gone. People need to know that.

She’s turned me into a wilted flower. Bloom seems so far behind. My soul feels dead. (I should probably delete this part)^ It’s too… wimpy.

Chances are you’re not going to seek an answer to why things are so amazing. You only notice things that get in the way of your happiness, convenience, well-being. Justification of good times is intrinsic due to and in the face of over bearing egos.

When the economies good nobody says, “God the economies’ great.” Because once you’ve recognized it’s doing stellar you start to think how long can it last? Nobody’s a stoic in a relationship. Nobody’s considering the worst-case scenario. Everybody’s just moseying along, enjoying the good times. But when everything’s bad a sunny day in the park can look like a dank dark alley-way where a junkie’s overdosing to the aroma of rancid garbage. Last thing he’ll ever smell.

When it ends you begin to hear the lyrics of the music you listen to. You come to know 50 percent of music is about healing the love wound that takes away far too many. Poetry or the rhetoric of those super emotionally aware has just become accessible for the first time. The backbeats fade and what’s it about becomes far more important than how it sounds. You’ve just started listening and hearing music for the first time. It’s a big deal.

Some people aren’t built for love. They’re just too sensitive and they loose themselves and their lives to the despair supplied after the phrase “please don’t ever call me again” settles. They’re meant to freeze instead of burn like the lucky few in an ecstasy that speeds up time to warp speed. Time flies faster than the speed of light when you’re having fun. Listen to art to heal the right-way.(that’s what I do)

The most frightening thing about love is it tears you from control. It also makes you realize how vulnerable you are. We humans come in all shapes and colors and so do our weaknesses; they vary. But I’m a hundred times more vulnerable than I thought. I’m like Smog from the Hobbit. I’m big and strong and covered with an armored belly of pride, but there’s one tiny little spot where the chink in my armor lays. My strength and power was an illusion. A delusion. This girl, her, she hit the bulls-eye. I’m tumbling down from the clouds.

I went with this other girl a few times but I blew it again. But this time it was for all the right reasons! I was eager to jump into something with her! She was great, picture perfect, and book smart. I scared her away by seeking the very same thing I had with the first love. Also, I wasn’t PC enough. Damn you Kevin Spacey. I forgot about my own system. That was the problem.

First, you tell each other you’re interested. Second, you jump into a shallow puddle of great sex. Third, around the fifth time you begin to dig into one another to figure eachother out. Fourth, you start a friendship, once you’ve learned all you need to know to continue on. Fifth, enjoy. I miss them both but I know there will be others. The question is will my pride block who I should be with? Will I accept her as she is or will I make the same god-damn mistake? My only fear.(I’ll probably make many more mistakes)

It’s not her sitting over there. It’s somebody entirely different. I need to go out, smile, and work on myself; that way I’m ready when she comes around again. If you pick anything to remember from this: there is so much more truth in metaphor than systems. I still dream about her.(but I’ve gotten over that)

Jesus she haunts me. She shows up in the middle of the night just to put her fingers to my lips and whisper goodbye as she disappears like the tormenting ghost she is. No closure equals no acceptance.

Sometimes she’s flirty and sometimes she hints at the possibility of a future if I can maneuver through her impossible maze of ridged expectation expectations. It’s like she already has her mind made up of where my every step should take place. She’s mapped out my path in her head for sake of control and reasoning behind how she’ll throw away my attempt as what it is, only an attempt with no hope of triumph. I can’t read her mind so my way of possibility to her is doomed as it’s written in her mind.

She flexes her grip by not looking me in the eyes, as I stare at her like the cliche pesky romantic overflowing with self pity. Her souls closed off to prying naked eyes. That’s all I am. That’s all I’ve become.

Her coldness her distance must be my subconscious rational surfacing screaming in the ear of my unconscious there’s no chance. I want to stalk her only to see her, prove to myself she’s still inhabiting space on earth because since she left it feels like she’s a billion miles away.

She’ll be there here for the summer but what of it? I’ll never see her again. I have to be strong willed and more determined. Stalking is for the weak. But then again what’s the purpose of my dusty binoculars forever still at the corner of my desk? Not for stalking even if its wholesome and innocent. That’s a laugh, an innocent proud stalking.

God how I miss or love her. I don’t know for sure which but I feel something so obvious so moving I can’t even describe it in the crude regulation of words. God dammit! I was working fine before this now I’m broken. I have to call. I hope she picks up. I hope I’ll see her just once more. Her scent and our scent. I’m remembering the wrong things.

Maybe this is hard because it’s like a death, collapse of a pillar inside my mental support system. I am not and cannot hope to control the outcome of my relationships with women. I am reasonable and logical but giving up part of my irrationality is like cutting off my right thumb. I am doomed to an uncontrollable variable-filled chaotic cluster-fuck of chance and hope. Hope is my only chance.

I hope it’s not just because of me I’m dreaming of her. But it is. She’s not participating and I have to check myself when I get too spiritual and start believing in destiny and dreams to an affecting point. When the dreams fade she’ll fade like tears in rain. And then I’ll weep because I can’t remember her anymore. Soon I won’t feel anything. I need closure like a bird needs flight. She’ll never give it. I’m grounded forever thinking about soaring. I’m a dodo. (Lol)

Guess I should count my blessings even though they feel like gangrene. At least I’m feeling something now. Wish it was positive. But it’s not. It’s somber, sad, and negative. But I am thankful for one thing, despite it would seem I have nothing to show from that transforming relationship. At least I know one thing. I know I’m not numb. Thanks for that H.

Here Today off the Pet Sounds album by The Beach Boys.

I didn’t love her. All it ever was, was a feeling of stability. The thing I’m constantly worried about, finding a partner which is probably half the stress I’ll experience in life, was for a brief flash nonexistent. And that release was gorgeous. I’m chasing that feeling not so much her. That feeling could’ve had a muse polarly different from her. I’m chasing a feeling not a girl.

The answer is in myself not a warm look of reciprocated endearment. I’m chasing happiness not a person. She’s just that. A person. I’m probably compatible with one out of every hundred women in a five year spectrum.

We make the terrible Hollywood fantasy mistake of confusing a deeply penetrating & sobering feeling within ourselves with the emblematic relation to that of the partner; and project it on the person we believe was the answer to all our questions in a positively flawed diagnosis. But we don’t miss that person. We miss that time and we miss that feeling within ourselves of pure contentment. Pure because we don’t fully remember it and our mind lends a hand to the dimensions of that purity. We only notice what we want. We don’t think about what we need. That’s capitalism permeating our mind’s judgment.

Just wait. I’ll find happiness again. Until then I need a big thing or many small things to take up this void of joy within myself. Shouldn’t be that hard to fill. I think I’ll take up a hundred hobbies that should do it; and 500 hours added to every day. Then it should pass in a few years… If I’m lucky.

The place we met isn’t there anymore. It’s changed. It is no longer that place, now it’s just a place. Barnes and Noble is gone, now its just an exspensive trinket hawker.

I went to Boulder to visit my best friend and my brother. She was there within five miles of me. I called her. No response. Then I went through our relationship in my message history. Our texts. I treated her terribly. I flaked and I lied and I did so totally aware of her suffering. I never took her seriously. I was a bad guy. I didn’t care. Now I’m stuck out here in the doldrums of my happiness. I’m starving to death without wind. Wish she’d blow back into my life but that will never happen. If I was her I wouldn’t pick up.

I want her so bad it’s driving me insane. And at this point it isn’t about sex. It’s about vicinity. She doesn’t have to keep up appearances. I don’t care if she’s lost a tooth or eye. I don’t see any difference if she has headgear, goes bald, looses an arm, in a wheelchair, gets super fat, or has a face transplant. I would care if she grew a beard though. Not down for the bearded lady. I don’t care one way or the other facial hair aside. It’s the part inhabiting the fleshy physical body I crave. It’s the part I saw when caught in a prolonged stare with her. Loosing the sense I was in the presence of a person. All I remember was feeling complete and knowing that she was getting the other one of the pair we shared in the exact same good vibration. It felt familiar when I first met it. How could I ever forget it?

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