Being “love sick”; a condition, a human flaw, all-consuming, seemingly irrational, somewhat selfish, childish to a fault, sort of stigmatic ulcer. Unrequited, it’s the best way to annoy your close friends. It’s dissecting each dialog exchanged while simultaneously flipping through old books looking for relevant quotations, all while living in pertinent songs and cinema. It’s the best way to remember that you are, in fact, alive and susceptible to… to what, I don’t know. To life, I suppose. As thawed and as far from being numb as you have ever experienced life, in most recent years.
Falling into it is almost like painting a world around you that may or may not look like the actual world surrounding you. On it’s best days it’s hopeful, giddy even, evolving in slow motion, as the time spent with it, love, is peeled away so precisely that you can’t help but notice each and every detail. I’ve stopped to absorb every awkward moment, every over-thought remark, and every underestimated statement. I walk away smiling, kicking my feet up to walk fast and sometimes even breaking into a run. It’s a feeling so lively and gracious that all else packaged with it seems very much worth it.
On it’s worst days, it leaves you cold, in your bed, in your shower, in front of your mantelpiece. It leaves you cold in all the places you should always find yourself warm in. Perhaps only your cheeks are warm (and silently, wet) when you finally close your eyes, on those days.
There is no running from it, although you can’t quite convince yourself not to try and outrun such a wronged love. On the days between the good and the bad, there are the empty. The desolate days where you give yourself a head’s start; these days offer no real closure, only a veiled, sheer sense of it, which is a horrible bite in the ass upon awakening. Perhaps you fill the void with drugs and empty vessels. Former admirers take notice and become present admirers that you can no longer attach former endearments to. They become annoying. They pale in comparison. Perhaps you beat yourself up by not sleeping and before you know it, you accidentally quit smoking.
These days vary amongst each other and are sown into one another with a dash of bitterness, a tinge of remorse and regret, and some varying amount of wishing you never felt this way in the first place. As if asking yourself how you could of possibly let yourself feel this way in the first place.
Well, it becomes a sort of stunt to your happiness when you are reminded of its worst possible fate. Before you know it, you’ve played out all potential fates to be “the worst”. It becomes a heart wrenching “sickness” every time you remember that there is no easy way out. Nausea is not uncommon and faintness is normal because whoever is driving inside your brain most likely fell asleep at the wheel.
It’s an abundance of concurrent jealousy and selfishness and sympathy and patience in accepting that your happiness is of a second-rate in this particular situation.
Not being able to attach it to any physicality is something I’ve never dealt with, which can ride hand in hand with the statement, “I’ve never felt this way before”. I'm finding it harder to deal with, having fallen for something displayed on a shelf before me that I have never actually held and may never actually hold at all.
Other clichés include (but are not limited to), “You make me feel young again”.
There is the lust that comes around, sneakily, testing your loins. You can put your hands up to your eyes, childishly closing them, all while smirking and envisioning your back arched, your head thrown back, your feet twitching and your hands absolutely gripping some fabric material so tight as to where your nails go through the skin of your own palms. Every droplet of sweat is to be doted upon; you pulling at the small of my back as to have it come as close as it can without having you actually enter me just yet, as to only tease us both. Dancing around your mouth, not quite kissing, just touching; learning in detail while absorbing the details because I am actually in love with the details. Getting lost in a scent, staggering your nose down a neck, behind an ear. Maybe all of this comes clumsily and I'll catch myself laughing at you between deepened breaths. My heart is racing, for sure, but I am calm. I suppose it's like being in the eye of a storm. That sexy Radiohead ballad, Nude, in which Thom Yorke sounds more specifically like a black, choir woman than usual, bellowing on about raw beauty and sweat and uncontrollable shaking. The perfect, sacred even, combination of fucking and making love and coming and coming again.
No worthy conclusion to come of all this but a trip to both the liquor and video store.
fin.
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