Who Does That Leave Me?

Herself wasn’t worth my time and energy. So who is? now that I’m exhausted. Somehow I’m more hopeful, yet also skeptical of the hope being realized. She change the standards of what I thought I’d wanted. Most of what I want now is her, but without the fear and the burning eyes–her before she hated me, but willing and able to express herself. Her age, her hair. Her long fingers, but capable of touching. Everything I thought she was, but real. Her but definitely not her. Who does that leave me?

Hollow Victory

The Letter won’t be sent. It took three long tries, but I finally admitted there was no justification in saying anything more to Herself. I couldn’t admit that with the first two, but I was writing them believing she would not welcome hearing from me, and I could not force myself to believe otherwise. From the outset–the first letter–I was determined to be dispassionate, or at least not accusatory or bitter. My inability to sustain that for even a page told me–thirty pages later–that there was no good attitude that would get that letter written and delivered. I wasn’t through talking, but she was through listening. I am still talking, but I will not solicit her ear. All I can do for her is stay away. That that might prove I’m not the creep she considers me is hollow victory for me.

A Mantra Barely Worth Muttering

I’m old enough to know I’m mortal, and to know I’m moreso every day. Will I get what I deserve? It’s not a given. We all know that. I’ve been around long enough to know what’s missing. I know how to get it, too, but I’ll need a bit more time and a lot more patience to learn the procedure. Better I didn’t know anything. I could leave the whole damn thing alone and live without it, filling the hole with all the toys the braindead are told to buy. But I’m smart, I know what I want, and I’m single-minded–no better at distracting myself from my quest than at knowing where to start it. I’d go the whole wide world just to find it, but I know I should sit and let it find me. Anyway, I’m tired and bitter, too. My world is small, so I wouldn’t have to go far, but there is no chase. What I deserve can come get me. There’s a mantra barely worth muttering.

What Does He Know?

Thinking about Herself, writing about all of it–maybe that means I’m not over her. Whether I agree or not, I won’t argue. If I’m not entirely dispassionate, I’ve moved a considerable emotional distance from her. I’m as much a journalist about it now as any journalist is about anything–opinionated but at least superficially bound to fairness. I know the source material by heart, but the heart is nearly done with it. The head is now sifting out the wild hopes and irrational actions. What’s left is lessons learned. I want to acknowledge them, affirm the growth, deny despair, maybe apologize a few more times. It’s history. I don’t want it to repeat. Not all of it. Love happens. Let it. Just don’t let it go it alone. Advice from a journalist: What does he know?

At Least, That’s Me

Vanity without confidence–How could I have liked myself? I have the confidence (some of it) back, and am not quite so ashamed of my vanity as I used to be. I feel good when I feel I look good. I’m not afraid of a mirror jumping out at me. Somewhere, someplace real or otherwise, my body is reserved for gods. Right now, that place is only in my mind. (I have to start somewhere.) Attraction starts with oneself. It’s only narcissism if one doesn’t share it. Confidence is what I want, what I want to show. Confidence always shows. So does arrogance, but I hope I have essentially grown out of that. I don’t exactly think I’m hot, but I wouldn’t question an attraction to me. What, me choosy? Sometimes I laugh in the middle of my toilette thinking of the care I take to reach my higher standard of pulchritude. All I ask is that someone appreciates the results. At least, that’s me.

I’m Sure That’s Normal

There was much doubt. Little of it was mine. I knew I would write my way out of this. The concern was touching, but I was never going to talk to a professional about it. Only friends would do. I told Herself once that the blog was my best friend. It was a moment of glib pathos, but it was not far off the mark. Mine was the only advice or judgement I could accept in good conscience, too. I would still rather have talked to someone, but I didn’t know who to trust. So I trusted the world wide web to find me someone. I pled my case. I talked it out. I talked to one too many persons. Doesn’t matter. One thing I trusted was that I was doing the right thing. I still do trust that, but for different reasons. Then, it was the right to express myself. Now, it’s gratitude for the experience, the opportunity to grow. I am emotionally intact, if not satisfied. I’m sure that’s normal.

Pursuit Cannot Fulfill It

This fascination I claimed to have for Herself is hard to define. Was it nothing more than another rationalization of love propping up my declaration of love? a shingle on the roof of the house of cards? a thread in this emperor’s new clothes? What fascinated me was what I didn’t know about her, a creation of my inference from what I did know. Is she the sad, dark vision I created in my mind? Answering that is not the concern it used to be. It comes down to being none of my business–that is, accepting it as such. I believe she is very much the person I imagined, but the desire to confirm it is no match for the reality of the impossibility. Allowing this reality to assert its rightful governance has gone far in taming, if not eliminating, the hope of ever knowing who she really is. The hope is still a fond one, but a patient one, too, now (though no more realistic). Pursuit cannot fulfill it.

New Standards Are In Order

It’s easy to settle into a life, even an uneasy one. Singlehood may be a freedom, but it’s an incomplete one. There’s only so much I can supply myself. I would like to share, but the longer I live with my “little ways” the more covetous of them and embarrassed by them I become. These ways are what I have. I resist making them what I am. Most of them are filler, ritual replacing necessity. That necessity: Don’t I think about it all the time? What could I give up to allow someone intimately into my life? Which “ways” must they displace to justify companionship? I’ve settled into such a practical life that even intimacy must be judged against practical standards, which have already pretended to exclude it. New standards are in order.