How to begin? A simple question, one answered in full, but with charming elegance, as one might pose to a customer, as one might pose to a desired suitor.
Interest. I guess that is really a large part of what I look for in life. Some sign the other person’s curiosity is piqued. A sign that a part of them responding to a play on words, a facial expression, a hand gesture. Interest. Some response, some voiced thought that matches the display placed before them. It really all comes down to interest.
The reasoning behind this, is it shyness? Some binding mentality stating thou shalt not pursue? Thou shalt not take the initiative until well into the course? Or is it just the cowardice of inaction, the fear of rejection lurking in the wings that holds me back? More likely the latter, but habit it has become and in habitual comfort I remain, even if it is an imperfect and lonely state. So I hide my thoughts and interests within until approached, until it is obvious a person wants to find out what is inside the façade.
Occasionally people do want to know, really. Even among the multitudes of the Earth there are those who will find even one such as I interesting. I smirk as the sarcasm drips from my fingers unto the medium of conveyance. Sure, I am a worthwhile individual, but there are so many dark corners, so many secrets. Most of the time when interest is announced, I am quick to flaunt the deficits, to overtly hint at the recesses of my tainted soul to see if the other person will flee, call it a litmus test if you will.
Ah, but this time I hid. A result of language barriers, perhaps? No attempts were made to remove naïve assumptions, just the best face forward, the manners impeccable, the courtesy, the kind side all at her disposal.
Have I become this person, this saint of hospitality and gentility? Not quite, though I have shifted quite dramatically from the brooding child of old to whom selfishness was first nature and darkness of spirit was second. Today the self is a more lighted and open place, though still haunted by half truths and discomfort towards personal definition and past mistakes.
Fine, so I lie a bit to advance my position in life, be it at home or work. Falsehoods, white velvet untruths to sooth the savage beast of the outside world. Music to their ears, that they may never suspect the mostly harmless truth hidden deep within. After all if it never happened then what harm can come from not pronouncing my sins to the world? I am not Catholic, confession is not required and hence not so healthy for the soul. Mine does quite well by hiding a few inconvenient “truths,” thank you very much.
Back to the topic at hand, let us speak of hauntings, of ploys too artfully gained with the results beyond measuring as a payment for unfaithfulness. Sin is after all a very rewarding enterprise to those who know how to navigate its waters in secrecy and with great stealth. Never happened, indeed.
Why is this a tangled coil about my heart? Why am I touched by the impossible circumstances I have placed myself into? Foreign soil, ideological opposites have no common ground, there is no place for compromise. Yet I bleed unspoken for an impossibility. Nagging questions present wild theorems of future conjunctions of the stars in the chance the whims of a touched heart may be realized.
Why does she touch my mind at all? A world apart, sharing humanity, attraction, and loneliness as the only congruous parts, why would two be drawn close when the gap between is bred and instilled in us from far before either birth? But I feel the touch, remember the caress and only the rational part remembers the reasons to curse such a meeting and to permanently bury any such wayward feelings. Only after the fact do I fully assess the differences. Perhaps this is because it is only after the fact that the weight of yearning descends upon me? During contact, answers are not sought, action is called for, living actually occurs and only when the vitality of the moment has passed does logic step in to evaluate performance and motives.
Let us name the possible reasons for my jaunt toward irresponsibility. Lust perhaps, this would be the simplest solution and that easiest to deal with. Lust is a known serpent, recognized as a valid weakness among the race of mankind. But what if it is not lust? What if this signifies something deeper, be it discontent with current conditions or heaven forbid, destiny?
Nay, it cannot be that harbinger at my door, I have forsaken fate, cursed its name and spat upon its offerings more times than I can count. Surely not even the lowliest of curs would return to such a spurning suitor. No, while others feel the stirrings of the stars within their heart, I feel the space between them, the empty void I embraced years ago in my quest to join the rest of America in our journey toward normalcy and its plush rewards. Such a comfortable death, I am amazed I can feel at all on the rare moments when my hair breaks the barriers to rise in forewarning.
Discontent then, could this be the cause for my crooked path? Not that I am really looking to place blame upon another’s actions or the day’s events, just attempting to find the cause behind the odd feelings, that I might rationalize them away to something quantitative and hence meaningless. What is emotion if it can measured, dissected, analyzed for it chemical composition? Why, just a sordid exercise, if pleasurable at times. Knowing this, one would think, to be reasonable enough to stop short of discovering the causes of emotion for the knowledge it would remove the luster from life, like a child who is told Santa Claus does not exist. Not me, thanks, I prefer my scabs picked at, my annoying discoveries brought to full light, even if I am the only one allowed to examine the Petri dish under the microscope.
Wait, this is false, for there are many realities I hide even from myself. Remember truth is a cloak of convenience, even for the wearer to disguise the facts from themselves. Well, where does this leave us? I know not the answer to this question and am not sure I am up to answering even if I wanted to.
Okay, so at this point, we have danced around the truth, hinted at potential transgressions, but largely played a lovely match of mental chess in an effort to hide, to change the topic at hand. Do we speak plainly among friends, or do we continue the charade began years ago in return for acceptance?
Oh please, can we waltz a bit more before removing our masks? Masks are meant to be worn until at least midnight and this is far more comfortable than facing the stark lights of truth, of potential mistakes.
Ah, to be in love, not just to love, but to feel a compulsion, a pulling in the chest toward a destination, rather than the simple comfort of known safety, of compromises compiled to reduce arguments and make life tolerable for the long term. To feel the pull again, the excitement in my blood as I wander a forest familiar in its path of emotions, but new and unexplored, the exotic terrain of another.
Again a smirk is upon my lips but for self derision, to express the baseness of my actions and desires, for is this not a most common failing among our kind? Can I claim to be any different than the next man for the desire and sudden flame of interest ignited in my breast? Back to lust then, I am left with soiled hands and no noble purpose save that of self gratification.
But surely discontent must play its role I think in justification. Life is not smooth, the path is rocky and strewn with doubt and contention. Fights are a normal way of life and compromises are often so hostile as to negate the ground taken by either side. I care, but am not in love by any stretch of the imagination with my current life, though that life may claim to be in love with me. I have given and not found my reward, though rewarded I have been, it is not the spoils I seek and hence they lay upon the ground, unappreciated, squandered as I look to the East, toward a potential new dawn. But life is mostly comfortable and even though the rocks gouge my feet, they are softer and leave fewer scars than the alternative of leaving the path. To divorce the path causes more pain for all involved it appears. Unsightly truths to be revealed, confessions of failure to be made, even greater loneliness to be faced.
Is this why I seek my solution elsewhere even now? As a means of forcing the hand, or out of the desire to relieve the imperfect solution I currently live with? Perhaps a third motive, that of not caring enough to preserve the present, of just a moral decrepitude.
I do not believe forcing the hand is the issue. I have learned finally to keep my secrets from the public, to keep my commitment to stated reality in sobriety and drunkenness, in heartfelt kindness and bitter resentment. I am content to keep my own counsel of past deeds and misdeeds, so why now the desire to commit my thoughts to a damning record? Why is this different? What is there in this impossible position worthy of changing the modus operandi?
There is some measure of sorrow in my movements, some shortness of breath, a feeling of loss and I know not why this should be. Is it merely the thought of causing another pain by returning home and denying a hope long thought impossible? No, I think I am far too selfish for that. This must be some internal dialog, some chemical reaction causing emotions I am unprepared to face. Emotional impact, the strength of the moment, is this what remains upon my consciousness? Is this the demon hovering in my mind, there to occasionally bring my focus back to what never happened?
Time and distance are growing but still the event is on the mind. Perfection is lacking, I know this. I have known this in every situation faced, always within a matter of days, always to be ignored and quieted so that I might find what pleasure I can in the solace of human contact, of an intimate relationship. What flaw is there in me preventing me from stopping within a safety zone before life sweeps me along to a point where only time has passed with few lessons learned and the only destination pain for both parties? I fear this to be craven weakness within, slave to the greater fear of loneliness, hence accepting what I feel would be imperfect as a means to achieve the goal of companionship.
But does perfection really exist? Come on, there are about three billion possible combinations if I keep my present preferences, narrow that down to a certain age group and the number still has to be in the high hundreds of millions. There must be some combination of traits available to complement, to meld into and find a partnership worthy of dreams, one with small flaws, not the large faults of present.
I know I can survive the present, just as I could have endured the past entanglements, but I want more and often arrogantly feel I am worth more than my current lot of domestic life and its brief bouts of bliss.
Wanting more, but what I have found even recently does not measure up to the half-formed image of perfection in my rare daydreams. Can anyone match the bill and still show interest? We must not forget my fears of approaching others for the chance uttering of the word “no.”
I keep finding fragments of my image, the personality, the physical presence, the humor, the interests, the intellect, the goals. I find combinations of various desires but not the fruition of a combined reality. Shadows are cast and shadows I attempt to comfort and console myself with but without real success. I know I can cope with less, but should I? Is this attainable, or merely the sludge lining of a pipe dream?
I can feel the clinging of that other self, the necessity in the embrace, the desire in the touch, but feel the imperfection. As a result, I see the pain in her eyes at every disappointment I feel, pain that revisits me in the form of perceived slights and arguments, a just payment for someone so dissatisfied as to convey these feelings to the other, even if mostly unspoken. Yes, I deserve the prison I have confined myself to and earn a prolonged sentence with each contemplation of how I think things should be.
Then why does another imperfect combination haunt my thoughts? Is this a reflection of my desire to escape my current commitments and follow the desires and whims of a vagabond for a time until I find a closer match my internal image? Why follow a star that does not lead to the desired destination? I am tired of wandering, weary of searching, exhausted from the altercations caused by going off course for extended periods of time. I want my reward, as unearned as it may be, I want to find my destination and rest my feet for the remainder of my existence, happy in the presence of another.
But what if my perfected image is then a reversal of roles? Twice or thrice now, I have stayed with those who knew me to be the closest and best realization of their dreams, but they were not mine. I felt the intense interest and bound myself with it, filling my need for companionship and feeding their dreams while knowing I was still hollow inside. How would I deal with finding perfection or its earthly avatar only to discover I did not measure up to the desires and standards of that exalted and revered person? The devastation would be considerable, I fear. I can see why the others have clung, without the bravery to push away that which did not want them, the length of the search alone is enough to make the staunchest adventurer feel trepidation at beginning the quest anew. I can imagine their pain and inner turmoil, from feelings of triumph at outward acceptance by the ideal, to the agonizing realization such rich emotional joy was not fully reciprocated.
I can see the pain, and shrink from facing it myself, but have forced others to it over years, twisting love into a desperate plea for continuance regardless of the consequences or compromises. How can I do this to others, especially when it is just over a dislike of being alone that I stay?
In my own defense I recall my exasperations and disappointments of searching and the reasoning no match can be perfect hence if the relationship is tolerable, it is endurable, and durability seems quite average. Mediocrity fits me in that it does not test my boundaries, does not force myself to grow, but still causes me pain and severe longing for a better horizon to gaze upon. In this, it is not fear alone staying my course, but a failure to believe I could ever achieve my dreams and desires. I have achieved a fair amount in life, though little to none of it what I set out to accomplish. As a result, is it a surprise I should doubt my dreams of finding a very compatible mate?
Based on this tangent, has my escapade been just a guiltless romp to answer an interest while I await perfection to seek me out and express their own desire prior to me moving an inch from the predictable haven of home? Most likely, but why then does she stay on my mind? It is the exotic, the foreign mind to be explored? This seems an accurate summation, but why then are emotions so heavily played upon? Why the distraction, the desire, the near compulsion when close? I am almost certain my image is not fully reflected within and the spatial barriers alone are enough for logic to provide a dutiful cold shower for me to bathe in. Toweling myself dry, my thoughts return, why?
It is sure to fade in time, but only if contact is not maintained. Contact may prolong and possibly even strengthen the longing. Is this but a tool to force a change at home?
A brave man would have faced the dilemma long before, either committing completely to stay the course, or breaking off as soon as the differences were readily apparent in the first month or so. A strong person would have found the means to carry on the search and to not rush into an ensnaring web of feelings before calmly reconnoitering the branches of the road ahead.
I know I am capable, but will I become this person, someone worthy of respect and worth the words spoken in commitment? If I am to change this portion of myself, how will I resolve the current predicament? Most likely not by confession, as good as it supposedly may be for the soul, it is most hurtful to the victims. Besides, what is there to confess? Nothing happened.
[© 2001 Joseph Wheeler, all rights reserved]