Walking Wounded

I awake to a howling wind as hard rain lashes at the sides of the house. Dark light slips through the windows; the gray sky speaks of a moody gloom. I’m on the floor and there’s carpet in my mouth? “Great,” I ponder, “What was I doing and where have I been…” New thoughts overwhelm, my lingering dream memories melt away.

I put on my slippers and head downstairs. Weekends are filled with laundry; if its wrinkled then all was for naught, so I move quickly. The dryer is still warm… couldn’t have been passed out for more than a hour. I gaze out through the laundry room door; no storm? Did the weather change? Am I fucked up? Senses reign my perception, how I fail.

No, no, not my senses; my analysis failed. A light pitter-patter was amplified by the house siding, I.. no, no, the weather changed. Before I can avert my attention the wind picks up again, dreadfully moaning to a silent melody, mere seconds before waves of water drops hail heavy praise.

I begin folding my clothes.

I want to tell you something about love.

About the absence of love.

How that absence in a social relation of mutual interest is one of the oddest experiences I’ve had.

More specifically, an absence of love infatuation. You know, that feeling you have about someone (or something) that prevails over your mind, oftentimes blinding you from realizing the ‘true’ reality around you, especially your perception of that person (or thing). Golly, he/she sure is special, sprouted right out of Zeus’ goddamn forehead and fell from the heavens, fell right into your waiting arms so you, hell, the two of you, could finally be complete. Must’ve been providence.

This kind of thinking really, really binds you to that person. You can’t see your future without them, encounter emotional distress, blah blah blah; I just hope for everyone out there that their ‘infatuate’ feels the exact same way about them, because I’ve seen too many people get bent out of shape over trivial shit.

Not being in love with someone puts a whole new spin on things. I find myself inspecting usefulness… and its kind of freaking me out.

Can I try to form a casual, practical relationship? And I’m not really trying that hard.
That sounds awful. Scratch that. I’m trying not to think about what I’m doing because over-analyzing stuff like this makes me act totally fucked up. I’m not trying; I’m just doing. Flying by the seat of my pants, whoopee!

Relationships shouldn’t be about completing; it should be about complimenting… you should already be “complete”, enjoying your life. Now you should be looking for someone who somehow makes your life even more enjoyable.

Fuck, I’m a regular Dr. Phil, ick.