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| Insanity |
| 04.26.04 (11:23 am) [edit] |
(Again, I'm sorry for not continuing with the story. This is just some rambling)
[i]The definition of insanity, they say, is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.[/i]
I want beauty. Perfect beauty. I know that’s impossible (especially for me), but I want it anyway.
I want to fall in love with her. But mostly I want her to fall in love with me. I want to live the rest of my life with her. But mostly I want her to want to live the rest of her life with me. I want to be a great husband, a great father, and a great philosopher. But mostly I want her to want me to be all of those things.
Does your heart go pitter-patter when you see her? Because mine does. And if yours doesn’t, why doesn’t it? Do you not imagine that she’s the one…? Oh, that’s unimaginable to me. Because the world would be unbearably heavy without her.
She’s not just one girl, of course. She’s the girl that inspires me to think, feel, and be the things in life that matter most. And sometimes I know her well. But usually I don’t know her at all. And I don’t mind because names aren’t important. It’s the feeling that matters. And if that feeling is strong enough, then I’ll probably ask for her name anyway. “There’s something special about you,” I’ll tell her. “I’m not quite sure what it is, but…”
And if she isn’t too surprised or turned off, then I’ll ask her to coffee or a walk. And I won’t be surprised if she says no. People don’t trust other people these days, I think. So if she says no, I’ll wonder what could have, should have, or would have been, but I won’t be too hard on myself. But if she says yes, I will be happy. I will take her out to coffee or on a walk, and we will talk about life and love and other similarly abstract ideas and ideals.
And no matter how much she resembles the last one—I tend to pick the same girl over and over again—she will be different somehow, better. Yet I won’t be able to communicate the difference. I’ll try using words and lyri cs, but I will predictably fail. “It’s beyond me,” I’ll probably say to myself.
And if I’m lucky—it’s been awhile—she’ll write back to me afterwards. She’ll say that she had a wonderful time, and that what she likes most about me is that I’m ‘real’, so to speak. And I’ll wonder what real means. But I won’t let my regressive thoughts get in the way of the progression of life. I’ll tell her that she seems ‘real’ too. And she’ll say something like, “Though I have a boyfriend, I still want to get to know you better.” And I’ll laugh and smile innocently and tell her something like, “You can always trust my intentions.” And I will be lying, of course, but at least I’ll be ‘real’.
And the next time we go out for coffee or maybe walk through a cemetery, I will tell her that Ann Rand is terrible and Milan Kundera is beautiful. And then later on, as we sip our lattes or read the headstones, I will ask, “Would it be the worst thing in the world if I kiss you right now?” And she won’t refuse me. She never has. And as we kiss, fireworks will explode and shooting stars will fly farther than ever before.
But the sun will have already been setting. And it won’t matter whether we are in the coffee shop or the cemetery, or whether it’s night or day, because this sun isn’t ‘real’; it sets after that first kiss. Like clockwork.
I’ll imagine she’s in love, and that’s enough. Because I once loved. I mean, I really loved. And it was beautiful. Perfectly beautiful. And that won’t ever happen again.
And when she is gone, I’ll start looking for her once more.
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