I've given up on the drunken zuihitsus these days. I don't write much, and I read a lot less than I used to. To be fully honest, a long relationship ended a few months back and I've been spending the time relishing the stroking of my own heart, making sure it's alright, and then moving straight on to chasing tail.
I know – it's horrible, isn't it? I was heartbroken, I thought, and so I held that in with everything I could until I realized that what I was frantically shoving back in wasn't half as pathetic or as shattered as things had led me to believe. Don't get me wrong – lovely, lovely girl, definitely worth the ache. But There came a time where I was ready to be nervous, to have my palms freshly sweaty (something I try to hide) as I met new people, as I tried to read their signals and figure out their motives. Did they really want me? Did I want them? Am I a 'ho' now?
It's been more difficult than I expected, especially with such a bounty of available sex. I found out some odd things about myself, like that I'm a weird guy who thinks he'll take it when it's offered but actually find himself uninterested fairly easily. I'm a dangerous daydreamer and I find being casual about sex both rewarding and emotionally dangesrous in a way that can only be described as masochistically anticipatory.
The worst part, honestly, is that for a long time towards the end of my relationship I laboured under the assumption that I was just bad at things. That I was bad at talking to women, that I wasn't funny, that I was a terrible lover, that I was stupid, that I was emotionally unavailable, that I had offended forces beyond the scope of my belief who had decided to return the favor in kind. It turns out that a refreshment in these things is dangerously good for my ego, but it also leads to a new kind of realization.
I thought I was interested in sex. I really did. And in a sense, I really, really am. I love it, and I can't imagine ever giving it up. But even if I've thought about the emotional implications of sex, I never actually gave more than perhaps one-and-a-half shits to how significant the hybrid physico-emotional connection can be. It's a great fucking thing (pun perhaps not originally intended but god damn) and we should all enjoy some emotional freedom. In case it isn't clear, I'm not talking about the act here - I'm suggesting that maybe sometimes people shouldn't vacillate between projected self-doubt and utter douchebag self-confidence. These are danger areas. Communication has a nasty tendency to lay either or both of these to rest, which is why you'll generally find people exhibiting either characteristic impossible to talk to - incapable, in the end, of the kind of realization that results in mental and emotional freedom.
Maybe it just comes down to those last two words. The last hints of a long run when you suddenly feel like you can stretch out your arms and find brethren in the trees around you as the air runs below your arms, and you really almost could take off and leave sea level behind forever; when you look someone in the eyes and everything you've worried about has become alright while you glanced away; a stranger helps you up, calls 911, and runs back to their house to patch up your ruined knee; and you look someone in the face and you don't want anything from them, and they look back and understand. This post mentions sex, and even I seized on it as I read it back to myself, but that's not what it's about. It's about everything that comes (hur de hurr hurrr I know) with it.
I don't know, guys. Sometimes I feel good, that's all. And if it can be something to celebrate even in a personality as generally bored as mine, perhaps we could all use a dose of happy-reality.