(no subject)
The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter
(Or The Human Heart Is The Path Of Most Resistance)
(Or Heres Your Hat, Whats Your Hurry?)
Oh, Bernard Herrmann. Who else would know my mind so well?
I played that music to death after I shit-canned things with Amanda... or she shit-canned things with me. The difference being whos side you're more likely to agree with; the details are the same, simply stretched so far they come full circle around. Still, it was a cleaner break amongst a series of increasingly common, messy breaks with friends lately. As if that makes it any easier. I suppose it was just time to hang up those hats and walk on and I'm trying my best to do it with joy. I'm learning from this, I'm changing and growing and ceasing to be that weaker person I once was. As they leave, I also leave the responsibilities of being in their lives and hope that they also grow in the process. Nietzsche and all that. I feel no resentment of them leaving, no discontent - sadness certainly - but nothing damning or hostile.
And that all sounds good to be sure.
But what gets me is that these people, these friends, these former loves and lovers have upped and gone, excused themselves, left on me - and now theres no trace of them. Theres no picture of me with Amanda... or Abby... or Angela... (Noticing a trend with the letter "A"?). I can basically mention these people to anyone in the world and they have to take my word on it; theres no "evidence" of these people entering or leaving my life. They no longer exist at all. Like a kidnap victim the police aren't interested in hearing about. Like boot prints in the sand. Is it a joy that they leave little behind or a disappointment? And did I have any lasting effect with them?
I'll miss them. Amanda especially, and I'm still racked with detailed disappointments that those gentle little things that her and I shared (and the nice things I tried to do for her) are carelessly tossed out by her and her alone. I remember so many of them, but like sharing the dream you had the night before, they'll mean nothing to anyone else who hears them. I use to think of her and smile, now I just sigh and think what a fucking waste it is to have so many great memories that the other person doesn't give a shit about. What a lousy way for anything to end.
So now I'm left wondering about my life. Where I'm bringing it, who I'm spending it with, whats going on around me.
Let me put it down this way. I have very strong feelings for a friend, and I have for some time. I thought there was a lot of mixed signals for a while and I find myself floundering over it. My heart pulls toward and the brain pulls back. She knows it too, its written all over her face half the time we talk. I'm quiet, I'm respectible, nothing has ever happened and the only thing stronger than wanting her is the knowing that if she wanted me, it would've happened. Or at least something would've been said by now. (Romantics live in the world of whats not said is never truly confirmed). So, by Holmesian deduction, its never going to happen.
Too bad. My loss. Times up. Tilt.
And then I get to feeling of how the heck could I be her friend and not attend her wedding to someone else? I can't have it both ways. Hell, you may not even have a choice of A or B. So my mind reels with considerations and leaves me with the idea that I have to lose. I love her but will never have her. And by that, I may have to start over like I did after Danielle.
The thing is - with Danielle it was easy. I gave up almost my entire social circle and everything having to do with her and her family for ten years because my self-respect demanded it. This time, I have to make the consideration out of respect for her. And in doing so, I'll be branded a bastard for it, won't I?
My big problem is simple inexperience. I have "notches in my belt" like anyone else and several of those girls would share the moniker "Whatsherface". And yet I've never had a stable, honest one-on-one relationship. Not the take-home-to-mom type anyway. And that inexperience makes me selfish. Not that I "want" so much as that I was never put in much of a position to "give", unless you count fornication.
My problem isn't that I'm an angry person or an unhappy person or someone who feels that he's been put-upon or made to act dead so that Life can go on uninterrupted. Not that I feel that if I go with the flow or against the grain that I'll be rewarded for either. The problem isn't that I'm an unhappy, miserable jerk. There is, in fact, no problem with those things at all, despite what other people may tell you. Its that I try so hard to be something else other than miserable.
The desire not to be a miserable bag of bones is always there despite all the synapses in my braincase lighting up like a christmas tree. All those little brain connections telling me that if I *stopped* trying to be happy, maybe I'd be happy. Maybe if I could just be a little more satisfied with who I am and not who I could or should be, I'd be better off. That the heart is the path of most reisistance. That there are no guarantees, nothing awarded and nothing promised in life or living.
And even then I know that. And even though I'm still a pissed-off jerk. I can't seem to be content for whatever reason. You'd think that even acknowledgement of self and what you are would bring some form of comfort but it doesn't. (Before the Peanut Gallery jumps in with "Well, maybe thats not who you are!" - yeah, I get that. But odds skyrocket against it as time goes on.)
Like the song goes - "When the world comes in: don't dream, its over"
(Or The Human Heart Is The Path Of Most Resistance)
(Or Heres Your Hat, Whats Your Hurry?)
Click to viewOh, Bernard Herrmann. Who else would know my mind so well?
I played that music to death after I shit-canned things with Amanda... or she shit-canned things with me. The difference being whos side you're more likely to agree with; the details are the same, simply stretched so far they come full circle around. Still, it was a cleaner break amongst a series of increasingly common, messy breaks with friends lately. As if that makes it any easier. I suppose it was just time to hang up those hats and walk on and I'm trying my best to do it with joy. I'm learning from this, I'm changing and growing and ceasing to be that weaker person I once was. As they leave, I also leave the responsibilities of being in their lives and hope that they also grow in the process. Nietzsche and all that. I feel no resentment of them leaving, no discontent - sadness certainly - but nothing damning or hostile.
And that all sounds good to be sure.
But what gets me is that these people, these friends, these former loves and lovers have upped and gone, excused themselves, left on me - and now theres no trace of them. Theres no picture of me with Amanda... or Abby... or Angela... (Noticing a trend with the letter "A"?). I can basically mention these people to anyone in the world and they have to take my word on it; theres no "evidence" of these people entering or leaving my life. They no longer exist at all. Like a kidnap victim the police aren't interested in hearing about. Like boot prints in the sand. Is it a joy that they leave little behind or a disappointment? And did I have any lasting effect with them?
I'll miss them. Amanda especially, and I'm still racked with detailed disappointments that those gentle little things that her and I shared (and the nice things I tried to do for her) are carelessly tossed out by her and her alone. I remember so many of them, but like sharing the dream you had the night before, they'll mean nothing to anyone else who hears them. I use to think of her and smile, now I just sigh and think what a fucking waste it is to have so many great memories that the other person doesn't give a shit about. What a lousy way for anything to end.
So now I'm left wondering about my life. Where I'm bringing it, who I'm spending it with, whats going on around me.
Let me put it down this way. I have very strong feelings for a friend, and I have for some time. I thought there was a lot of mixed signals for a while and I find myself floundering over it. My heart pulls toward and the brain pulls back. She knows it too, its written all over her face half the time we talk. I'm quiet, I'm respectible, nothing has ever happened and the only thing stronger than wanting her is the knowing that if she wanted me, it would've happened. Or at least something would've been said by now. (Romantics live in the world of whats not said is never truly confirmed). So, by Holmesian deduction, its never going to happen.
Too bad. My loss. Times up. Tilt.
And then I get to feeling of how the heck could I be her friend and not attend her wedding to someone else? I can't have it both ways. Hell, you may not even have a choice of A or B. So my mind reels with considerations and leaves me with the idea that I have to lose. I love her but will never have her. And by that, I may have to start over like I did after Danielle.
The thing is - with Danielle it was easy. I gave up almost my entire social circle and everything having to do with her and her family for ten years because my self-respect demanded it. This time, I have to make the consideration out of respect for her. And in doing so, I'll be branded a bastard for it, won't I?
My big problem is simple inexperience. I have "notches in my belt" like anyone else and several of those girls would share the moniker "Whatsherface". And yet I've never had a stable, honest one-on-one relationship. Not the take-home-to-mom type anyway. And that inexperience makes me selfish. Not that I "want" so much as that I was never put in much of a position to "give", unless you count fornication.
My problem isn't that I'm an angry person or an unhappy person or someone who feels that he's been put-upon or made to act dead so that Life can go on uninterrupted. Not that I feel that if I go with the flow or against the grain that I'll be rewarded for either. The problem isn't that I'm an unhappy, miserable jerk. There is, in fact, no problem with those things at all, despite what other people may tell you. Its that I try so hard to be something else other than miserable.
The desire not to be a miserable bag of bones is always there despite all the synapses in my braincase lighting up like a christmas tree. All those little brain connections telling me that if I *stopped* trying to be happy, maybe I'd be happy. Maybe if I could just be a little more satisfied with who I am and not who I could or should be, I'd be better off. That the heart is the path of most reisistance. That there are no guarantees, nothing awarded and nothing promised in life or living.
And even then I know that. And even though I'm still a pissed-off jerk. I can't seem to be content for whatever reason. You'd think that even acknowledgement of self and what you are would bring some form of comfort but it doesn't. (Before the Peanut Gallery jumps in with "Well, maybe thats not who you are!" - yeah, I get that. But odds skyrocket against it as time goes on.)
Like the song goes - "When the world comes in: don't dream, its over"