Let us eat cake
I'm in love with myself. And that's great, I get to spend most of my time and attention on the person I most want to give it to, and I do so many wonderful things together with myself. It doesn't mean I'm selfish; I have plenty of love for other people and all the other things. It just means, when it comes to my sense of validation, of worth, of my source of happiness, I am right where I need to be: right here with me.
In previous years I expended so much energy trying to achieve things I didn't really want, although I didn't understand it at the time. Chasing others through hell and high water until they finally turned their face to mine, and I looked into their eyes and saw only my darkest dreams. The endless void, or myself reflected, it was pretty much the same back in those days.
Now though, things are a little different. Having caught up with myself, spun myself around in a loving embrace, skipped merrily over hill and vale, played castles on the moon, seen the rings of Saturn and all that other stuff lovers do, I'm finally at a point where I can be a little more sensible in my approach to life, love and other people.
It helps that I've also realised something that I probably always knew but didn't want to admit. And that is, I'm just not fussed about sex. I would be happy enough never to do the deed again. Looking back, it is apparent that much of my relationship troubles were a result of having inadequate interest in this act, and somehow this meant I did not love them.
Not that it wasn't fun, or exciting, or even thrilling once underway. But it usually felt forced, something done from a sense of obligation, something I would not have chosen to do if there were no other considerations. I am "straight for love", which is like "gay for pay" just with more tantrums and crying. I love being in love; sex was a means to an end. Now I wish the end without the means.
In previous years I expended so much energy trying to achieve things I didn't really want, although I didn't understand it at the time. Chasing others through hell and high water until they finally turned their face to mine, and I looked into their eyes and saw only my darkest dreams. The endless void, or myself reflected, it was pretty much the same back in those days.
Now though, things are a little different. Having caught up with myself, spun myself around in a loving embrace, skipped merrily over hill and vale, played castles on the moon, seen the rings of Saturn and all that other stuff lovers do, I'm finally at a point where I can be a little more sensible in my approach to life, love and other people.
It helps that I've also realised something that I probably always knew but didn't want to admit. And that is, I'm just not fussed about sex. I would be happy enough never to do the deed again. Looking back, it is apparent that much of my relationship troubles were a result of having inadequate interest in this act, and somehow this meant I did not love them.
Not that it wasn't fun, or exciting, or even thrilling once underway. But it usually felt forced, something done from a sense of obligation, something I would not have chosen to do if there were no other considerations. I am "straight for love", which is like "gay for pay" just with more tantrums and crying. I love being in love; sex was a means to an end. Now I wish the end without the means.