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You think you’ll get reborn, that the end is the beginning. I think it’s silly to think that our ‘souls’, whatever they are, are bound by space and time. By karma. I think our essence races through local, global, space and to anytime it can. Reincarnation only ever truly manifests itself as someone else’s mental health problem. Somewhere and sometime else. ‘Will be’, 'have been' these are concepts without merit, like eternity.
Yeah, you would think that.
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One does not need access to a girl to have problems with the fairer sex.
Those kinds of problems are all-inclusive.
When I had a girlfriend I worried about her and for all this time alone I have been worrying as well. About women.
At first, after I lost her, I worried about when. Now I worry about if.
At first, after I lost her, every pretty face I saw made me happy and optimistic.
Now I just feel alone.
All in all my love life has been not so much bad as non-existing. A series of near misses, near hits, and heaps of affection misplaced at crucial moments. I always do the wrong thing. That’s what I mean with having problems with the fairer sex, in a nutshell pretty much. Every one of them so beautiful and unobtainable. It’s enough to make a man desperate. Maybe not ‘a man’, maybe just me.
Drive a man to ramble through rainwet streets, singing loudly to keep the demons away. The memories. The longings. And there are so many memories, so many longings.
Every new place I go to I still get that glimmer of hope, someone there will love me. Someone.
Hope is worse than love. It’s harder to kill, dies a more pleasant death, sure, but it takes forever to get there. Love shatters into a million little pieces that you then have to dig out, one by one, but then it is gone. Hope lingers, always there at the back of the throat, back of the mind.
There was this girl, it’s a short story, most of them are, who I almost had, the girl. We would walk hand in hand, she would sit on my lap, she would send me looks – I’ve got one of them on tape even – and we were happy and were very close to being there. But. There were two things, there was another man who wanted her more than I did, you could see it in his eyes, I could see it in his eyes, and there was a friend of mine who is no longer my friend who all of a sudden called direct attention to what we were doing, I and this girl. That stopped it right in its tracks. Good Lord I miss her. I miss them all. And that is the problem, right there.
I go through relationships in seconds these days. I’ll see someone, or even just think of someone, and I’ll get the Hope and in an instant I’ll see every day of our time together. Every kiss, every fight, even the breakup and aftermath. It scares me. Makes me wonder if I’ve gone numb to the real thing, if anything will ever be good enough. If. It’s one of the reasons I walk at night, in the rain, as far from crowds as you can get in this town. To get away from the memories and the hope.
Women disappear, to Canada, to the other end of the country, to the arms of their true love – that knight in shining armor I told them would never show up, yeah, that’s happened a few times. Desperation. I should kill something. Yeah, that would release some steam, get some of that stuff I’ve got pent up inside me out. Right. As if.
I’m just young and unlucky and there is still good reason to hope. There are so many women out there, in here, I’ll meet someone. Someone here will love me. Someone.
Glass shatters, like love, not far from here, glass shatters and someone hits the ground. I really should get home, the cats will be worried sick.
Should call my friends, my single friends, and have a night of wild drinking and talking and general merriment. Dull the pain.
This lonely pain. And maybe make me not sound like such a whiny bitch for a couple of hours.
I rant and rave and I go on and on about near misses.
There’s someone out there. For me.
Someone.
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You shot my friend. Dead. And I still have to love you. How do you think this sits with me? Logically I should hate you, kill you or bring you in or kill you and bring you in. But. If I have learned even one thing it is that trying to use logic as a measurement is folly. Logic is the desperate mans tool, a man-made construct built to explain the brief moments of causality in a universe of disassociation.
That’s one way to look at it I guess.
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