Fuck unrequited love.
The gnawing. The possessive desperation. The ache of unknowing, worsened only by the slow-dying thud of knowing for sure. The over-commercialized but no less real feeling that you will die, you will just DIE.
Now before we go on, let me clarify whom I’m talking about here, for the sake of the ‘piece’. I am not talking about those poor sods that sit scribbling over spell check nightmare love letters, little devotee tears pooling in their love-lacquered eyes. Spewing forth all the emotions (every little itty-bitty one) from their mussed-up heads down to their radiating feet, only to be so callously rejected with an inarticulate, “Um I just don’t see you that way.” Oh no. This is the case of the sadder. Whoever is in the path of this gushing love. The withstander of the adoration.
I am talking about me. (Or you if you feel the need to implant yourself into the story to enjoy it).
But the poor sods, I hear you puzzling, with that head tilt and bottom lip stuck out, “Are the ‘lovers’ not the ones who deserve our consideration, our condolence?” Shit no! No sympathy need be shared. They’ve got love in their hearts and fire in their bellies! Enough emotion to pen seven moleskine journals in one summery park afternoon! They are living the goddamn dream! Beloved me on the other hand…
Well, I may be that dream, but I am certainly not living it.
And this proves to be a pickle.
Because, well, although the initial splash of ego-boost is rather glorious, the incessant run of saccharine words get old and soggy and all that is left has gone rather dry and sticky and is peeling off around my eyelids.
And it is around this point that you start to wonder about your admirer. You are uncertain of their sanity. You scrutinize the loss of lucidity in their glassy, idolising eyes. You doubt their downright sensibleness. Your gorgeous, brilliant amazingness has become… their crazy. Squinting at yourself in the mirror you try to understand. You are quite passable. Pretty even, in the right light. You are intelligent and can make a decent joke. You have ‘style’. But… no, it’s not quite possible, this extent of adulation, you think, fingering the light hairs around your belly button that may even be in need of a pluck if you gave a bit of a fuck. Uneasiness pools as expectations grow. Anxiety swells. Your unsettled tummy balloons with apprehension as you realize that no one is as excellent as the woman that is being described to you as yourself. Bloody hell, you don’t even flush the toilet after making a pee anymore!
Love, you conclude, has turned the boy mad.
But still, you question yourself. Your reasons. Your doubt. Your straightforward ‘no’. This silly man’s obsession has now made you challenge your legitimate feelings. He believes it is because you are not ready. You are frightened of intimacy because of your childhood rejections. You aren’t allowing yourself to love. Maybe now is not the right time but… it will be.
The interrogation begins:
- Should I..?
- Could it..?
- A chance..?
- Just high standards..?
- Yes, but God won’t be happy if you settle for less.