Got a half hour to kill. Write a little bit everyday.
Went to the bank to get quarters for laundry. It was waiting in two wet piles in the basement since last night. Drying now. There were no gunmen at the bank.
So, we’ve established that I am dysfunctional, with probably a dash of antisocial added to my asocial-ness. But I am wondering, from this not so rarefied perspective, what is falling in love? Is it just a matter of getting over the natural obstacles that exist between people? I mean, in most love stories, it seems to me that circumstance, not fate, is largely responsible. And I don’t want to get into the tedious task of teasing fate apart from circumstance, but I think falling in love is more whoever-is-there than I-finally-found-you. I know that sounds like no fun, but such are the questions one must ask when coming back to life.
Back to life? Yes, I have come back to life more times than I care to count. Dying is a consummate pleasure, but it suffers for not having a satisfying sequel. So back I come. Which raises all sorts of annoyingly existential questions, like, what is falling in love.
Maybe I am here to be alone. Nah, too good to be true. Well, then maybe I am here to throw myself pathetically and hopelessly at anyone who is ‘there’. Oh, and has the other prerequisite, a cock, because we need an object of serious diversion if we are to survive getting close. At least that’s what I have always tried to use it (his, I mean) for. But I have to admit, such a method, despite countless applications of it, has never really worked; a cock has never helped me survive getting close. (But it has always been a serious diversion.)
Is one as messed up as me even allowed in to the feast of being in love? Or is it best that I settle at a distance for the sweet scent from the kitchen? From my perspective, falling in love seems more like ‘falling’ up a mountain. For those who socialize effortlessly, ‘falling’ may be an appropriate verb applied to love. It might seem inelegant but, ‘clawing into love’ might better describe the process for me, if I ever make it happen.
I know you are out there, and in this random world, with love falling like alternate petals of a flower, I have been trying desperately to avoid you. But I am tired. That which is inevitable rushes at me like a tsunami. From the beach I strain to see what frothing torment approaches. Is it you? Or is it the end of me? And are they not the same?