LORDY. I swear I'm not as sad as this blog impresses you--but why write when you're happy? I don't even need a blog when I'm happy. Happy times are for reading, not writing.
I have learned that true sadness is only felt after a seemingly unjust tug-of-war with love. The guessing games, the fleeting attractions, the steps taken to either prevent seeming overeager or ensure your interest is properly interpreted. I am in a tug-of-war, and losing. Or perhaps I've lost.
It's not a game shared with anyone else, even lovers, but one you play only with yourself--God knows what the other person is feeling. It really doesn't matter. Even if he is head over heels and you occupy his every free thought you'd never know, and it isn't important to know. How you react to your suspicions of his feelings tells you the most about how the game will end. Are you anxious? Are you aloof?
If you're aloof, well, lucky you. I envy aloof. Even in relationships where I couldn't give a rat's ass about the other person I cannot manage aloof. I equate aloof with guilt. In fact, I attribute guilt to any emotion other than affection or respect. As in, I feel shitty when I'm not totally fair with the other person.
Flashback: The week before spring break, I end a thing with a guy I had been dating for about two months. Because I never allowed the thing to become more than a thing, I didn't have to drop a whole breakup bomb on him. I just left a trail of sulphur and let the burn reach him slowly. Not cruel, but possibly heartwrenching (I mean, I'm kind of a catch, you know, with my emotional stability and all) and definitely dishonest. Just left him one day on his porch without a kiss and never spoke again.
Flashforward: Meet the most amazing person. Flirt for a week, go on a date that redefined Good Dates, flirt for another week, and here I am writing. On a Friday night. I'll let you guess the intervening details.
Perfect guy, and I blew it by doing nothing. Fickle. So I pulled too hard on this tug-of-war and fell straight on my back. I'm not sure if I'm in the mud yet, but for now, Fitzgerald is my only numbing agent and, much to my dismay, Amory Blaine is having his heart broken, too.
There isn't lesson from this, and that may be the worst part. Perhaps I am just reeling from the effects of karma--getting what I deserve for leaving someone without giving them confirmation of my departure and, therefore, never freeing them to live their lives without expectation of a sudden return. (Again, I doubt the situation is this dramatic, but God am I sad right now.)
Conclusions have always been the weakest component of my writing, but I'm going to try with this one: After getting off the phone with my mom, ranting all about this boy and lapping up any consolation she had to give, I saw a cloud in what has literally been a cloudless sky. It was so beautiful I stood up out of my reading and wine-induced stupor to look at it. (I've posted it below in what appears to be the highest quality my Mac can afford) The cloud, I hope, is a metaphor. This moment in my life is so sad, in so many different ways aside from missing out on Mr. Perfect, but it is beautiful. And like a cloud, this time of deep introspection and growth will pass, and life will be a spotless blue. So I should appreciate them now, before they dissipate.