Writing

A Broken Love Story.

“So, Ian — welcome to the graveyard of ambition!”
~David Nicholls, “One Day”

I like a good love story like the rest of them. But unlike the rest of them, I tend to fall in love with the stories that don’t end so happily. One of the main characters dies at the end, or another unavoidable circumstance irrevocably pushes them apart forever. It’s not that I don’t hope for a happily ever after, it’s because it seems to reflect real life so much more than an actual happily ever after.

When I was 19, I had hoped that college would be the defining moment for me in my life. It was, but not how I expected.

You see, I never dated in high school. I was never taken out on a date or asked out to prom or homecoming. I was one of those people in the middle: not quite popular but not quite at the bottom of the cesspool. I was just that average girl that everybody liked but nobody thought about. When it came time for college, I was excited at the prospect of meeting new people: new friends, new mix of guys who might like me enough to take me out on a date.

It didn’t happen.

Well. Kind of. There were a couple of guys interested enough to spend some time with me. Very brief, nothing lasting. Every time I hoped that this time would be different, it wasn’t. They just wanted a couple dates or someone to flirt with.

I decided that the effort was too much and decided to focus on studying instead. It was hard, I don’t think I succeeded in forgetting about dating.

Time passes and feelings change. I’ve come to realize that you don’t always get what you want. What you set out to do changes into a series of disappointments.

I’m not writing this because I want people to feel sorry for me. Nor do I want people to comment with consolation, trying to lift my hopes for a love that’s everlasting. Because sometimes that sort of thing never happens.

I still ache, but I am happy. I am alone; it has become entwined with me. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if that ever change. I’d probably have a panic attack. I’m too used to having the bed to myself, falling asleep listening to YouTube, and spending the day in my jamis if I want to. Having a boyfriend would mean I’d have go out and do stuff and that’s just…not me anymore, somehow. At least, that’s what I like to tell myself. I’ll still roll with it.

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Writing

The Shallow Reasons for a Relationship

I’m jealous of those who are dating or married. But I’m jealous for the shallow reasons that only a single person could be jealous of.

Things to be jealous of in a relationship:

  • Never lonely.
  • Have someone to watch t.v./movies/YouTube with.
  • Have company in the same room even if you’re doing different things
  • Have someone to wake up to
  • Have someone to hold you
  • Have someone to go out and do things with

Of course you should be in a relationship for more than the superficial reasons. But I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been in one in all the time I’ve been on earth. I’ve been told I’m not missing much, that there’s great things in being single. I know there’s great things to being single; I exhort them daily. I’m grateful. But some have been with their lover for so long that they forget what it’s like to be single. They forget that loneliness can wrap around you, hug you tight and not let go until you’re driven mad with desire. Believe me, it makes you want to go to the first person who pays the slightest attention to you. But don’t. It’s not worth it. Especially if the guy’s a butthole.

It’s been a long time since I’ve last been with someone I thought would turn into something more. And therein lies my problem. It takes me a long time to get over my love interests that almost were, but when there’s been enough time lapse, I’m feeling the tug of loneliness even when I’m certain I don’t want to. It’s a strange feeling to have.

Being single is okay. So is being in a relationship. So is being shallow. But let’s not downplay or exhort each other’s situations.

Maybe.

If you insist.

I don’t know where I was going with this, other than the fact that shallowness is indeed a feeling at times.

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Writing

The Insecurities of Love

We were walking around the mall holding hands. In a store front window was a dress. I don’t remember what it looked like, but it reminded me of something from the 50’s.

“Do you think I’d look pretty in that?” I asked.

He stopped and looked at me intently. “I think you’d look beautiful.” He paused. “You don’t think you’ll get married do you?”

I didn’t say anything, but I agreed with him. I didn’t think I was ever going to get married.

He squeezed my hand. “I think you’ll get married one day and you’ll be the most beautiful woman in that dress.”

I smiled and we continued walking.

Not long after that, he stopped talking to me and I never saw him again. Sometimes promises are broken and words are merely words that people say to make you feel better in the moment. They feel good, but it hurts worse when they leave.

I’m still single and I probably always will. I’m happy with this generally, but sometimes I get a nagging insecurity well up within me on occasion; that I’m one of those people that others aren’t interested in romantically. Sure I’ve been told I’m pretty and that I’m sweet, but not long enough for me to get the sense that I’m a worthy component to receive attention.

I’ve expressed this feeling to my friends but I think they tire of me quickly. They’re already in love, so why should it matter about the faults and struggles of others?

I’m kind of nervous about sharing this but I’m going to be brave and share it anyway. Perhaps others feel the same way and I never even knew.

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Life

Should I Care About Dating?

A person’s life never turns out the way you expect it to. There was a girl I knew in high school who was very academic minded and always seemed to be in career minded way. She got her bachelor’s degree, but she married halfway through her studies. After she graduated she became pregnant with her first child; now, she’s a stay at home mom with three children as well as homeschooling the two eldest. That is not how I expected it to be for her.

As for me, I thought I’d have a steady boyfriend by the age of 24 in the very least, maybe even married. I’m several years past that age without ever having a boyfriend or a gaggle of boys looking wistfully back at me. A few years ago, I watched as my friends went from one boyfriend to another before each one dropping off into the land of marriage, feeling a pang of jealousy at the very thought of it. Oh, how it made me lose sleep sometimes!

Now I look at this time and just laugh. Oh, what a lark I was! How to ever think that dating would ever solve my problems.

I don’t feel this jealousy anymore. Maybe sometimes, but not really. I am me and being me allows me to come home and read my book without feeling obligated to call up my man to see if he wanted to make plans for the evening. I don’t have to feel guilty for not wanting to go out.

I’m not perfect, you know. Sometimes, when I’m snuggled up in bed waiting for a wave of sleep to overcome me, I feel a pang of loneliness. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to snuggle up to and feel safe? Wouldn’t it be nice to have a night where I didn’t have to watch a movie alone or confide my thoughts to a diary? Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone who could tell me what they think of whatever it is I’m telling them? Sometimes those little moments of company would be grand.

But I don’t let it bother me too much. I indulge it for a while, a day or two, but then I push it away from me. Thinking about what I can’t have, what I generally don’t want isn’t going to change anything. Making myself sick with longing isn’t going to make a man jump out in front of me with all the whimsical nonsense of new love.

I made a realization the other day that I don’t have a crush on anybody that I know personally. I don’t remember ever having a time when I didn’t have a crush. Surprisingly, I’m not bothered. Having a crush hurts, you know? You like someone and you’re at the whims of whether or not they like you back. Sometimes they find out, but a lot of times they don’t, and when you don’t, you keep it secret because you don’t want them to find out and crush your dreams.

I’m probably growing older. The impulse of wanting to have it all no longer hovers over my head. My priorities have changed. I’m no longer going hold onto the hopes of what might happen. I enjoy my life and I enjoy being single. I’m tired of getting men “to like me.” If there is a man out there who secretly likes me, then I hope he’s got the courage to ask me out as I’m generally oblivious. And I don’t want to make the effort if they’re going to pretend it’s not worth it.

I’m probably not making much sense. But sense is for the senseless and I’ve got other things to do.

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Writing

Relative.

I always wanted a brother.

Sure, I contemplated having a sister to confide in about girly stuff and the like. I even dreamed about having four siblings: two brothers and two sisters so that I could have the best of both worlds (in my innocent mind at least, that would be the best to have both sisters and brothers.)

But as I grew older, the more I wished that I had a brother. With a brother I could have adventures with. I’d have someone to go hiking with, to take a canoe down the river with, to have a roller coaster buddy. A travel along, museum enthusiast and everything else in between. I wanted all this that a brother could offer and more. He could protect me and tell me whether the guys I liked were jerks or not. I could hang out with my brother and no one question it because he was my brother and not just a guy that could potentially turn into my boyfriend (I just made that weird, didn’t I?)

Over the years, I met guys of the opposite sex. A few of them I had crushes on; a couple of them almost became serious. But one of them became like a brother to me. And my poor mind was confused: I liked him romantically, but how could that be when we acted like brother and sister?

I’ve reached a point where I’m no longer looking for a relationship. Sure it’s fun to go on a date, but it seems like most guys I know see me as their sister. A friend at the most, but no less. And 99% of the time it’s a one time platonic sort of adventure where we follow each other on Facebook. And this is okay. I think.

In the grand scheme of things, it probably doesn’t matter. But in my small bubble, it matters.

Do I want a boyfriend or a brother?

I don’t know.

I don’t buy into the whole “new way” of dating, via online. I don’t feel desperate (most of the time) yet it’d be nice to have company every now and then. So maybe I am looking for a brother type friend in the near future. Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s all very well that I could full of bologna and I want the opposite of what I just described. But who cares right? I’ll just do my thing and hope for the best. Or the worst. Life will deal out its dark jokes sometime or another. Until then, I’ll go back and read my book, shall I?

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Writing

Just One Time.

This is the spot I remember, the place where time stood still. You stared at me and I was lost in you. I couldn’t move, but from within I moved in all directions. The statue of your image couldn’t have been more still than what I saw before me. A living perfection; I wanted no one else.

I felt myself unfreeze, I made a move to set myself down. Instantly, you uncoiled, my wrist encompassed in the cup of your handle. Gently, you pulled myself to you, lips pressing against my brow. I am surprised, as I often am, that you actually wanted to be close to me. Did you hear the beating of my heart? You’re so close, I’m sure you could. Don’t go away, you’re smell is intoxicating. You are strong and safe, and warm.

I move back a step, you’re eyes I wanted to see. Instead your grip tightened and pulled me closer. Soft lips–how could you have them as soft as these!–press against mine and I forget the world around me. Did you care if someone caught us? Did I? I was no longer aware, neither were you. The world was forgotten and so was I in your cocoon.

This was the kiss that should have been; the kiss that should have been experienced the first time. It might as well have been, as all others were soon forgotten. I wanted you, I loved you, I needed you.

I never had that feeling ever again and I long for you, that feeling to come again. I dream of you and think of you often. It won’t be like that again. I hope you remembered me in the years since I last saw your face. I hope you smile and wonder about me too. The things that might have been dissolved into the sands of time, a memory faded but still holding on as something fond.

Nothing else will be just as whole.

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Writing

The One to Change My Mind.

I want you to tell me
You love me
I want you to ask me
My favorite things that I do
When I don’t have to be
Someone else for
everybody else.
My secret fears is that you’ll run
away
When I tell you my darkest fears
Insecurities line me
when I imagine you knowing what scared others
Hold me close and whisper
that I am enough
To pretend to be isn’t something I need to do
Take me to the places
I’ve always wanted to share
with you
My life is spent alone
in a bubble of reverie
Cocooned in a contentment of alone things
that doesn’t require the
outside force
of others
Embrace me for what I am,
don’t push me into what I am not
But gently encourage me
into confidence of what I could
only imagine
what I wanted to be.
I am, I am, I am,
but I could be more with you
I’ve given up, determined
to be alone
But you-you might be
the one
to change my mind
I just don’t quite know
who you are
Just yet–

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