Grrrr. Arrrhgh.
May. 18th, 2002 02:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rinueI hate falling in love. This is not simply a reflection on the current situation, but a more general state of affairs. I hate falling in love. Being in love, I can handle. Being in love is something I enjoy, something at which I have great skill. Falling in love, on the other hand, is not something I do gracefully; more often than not, I have to be dragged down by the hairs at the back of my neck -- and even then, there may be a titanic battle which requires the throwing of house-sized boulders, lightsaber sorties over lava pits, and wrestling with gun-toting cyborg tigers.
It's not that I object to the idea of love; I'm rather fond of it, in my way. It's the first month or two that I dread -- the passionate honeymoon period that everyone else seems to delight in. New love is by its nature passionate and overwhelming; those involved (assuming reciprocation) become so engaged in the process of imprinting that they shut out the rest of the world. Personalities are subsumed as every thought, every breath, is about The Other; time spent away is less beautiful, and conversations on different subjects fall beneath notice.
This is an important and natural phase. They've done neurochemical studies to prove it. It's inevitable.
I hate it.
You see, I don't own very much. I choose not to; material belongings hold only limited interest for me unless they are especially beautiful. It's been six years since I've really had a place I could call home; I lead a variable and nomadic existence.
Basically, there are only two things about which I am territorial. The first is my friend group, about which I can become startlingly posessive, albeit in a fairly magnanimous way. The second is the inside of my head, which is the only sphere I can truly claim to control.
Falling in love is like giving up both of them, at least for a time.
It would be easier, I think, if I could better pick and choose when it happened. That's somewhat misleading, because I can choose to fall in love or not -- that's something I've always believed in, and likely always will. The question is one of how often I am granted the choice; I tend to find very few opportunities.
In short, the risk to me is great either way. If I decide to fall in love, I temporarily lose everything I care about, with no guarantee that it will be worth it. If I decide not to, there's no guarantee that I'll get another chance any time soon.
R1: So fall in love without losing your identity.
/R2 nonchalantly picks at the stucco above her head./
R2: (dryly) That's the trick, isn't it?
I've been worried lately about some of my friends' journals. At least three of them have just come within a razor's edge of quitting -- three of my favorites, as it happens. These are people who have kept journals for a long time -- two years, in one case.
In at least two of these journals, the abrupt near dissolution directly followed a month of talking about love.
These posts were beautiful. Remarkable, sometimes. Often some of the best posts I'd ever seen. Love is a powerful muse, especially when it's unrequited. It has caused the creation of more great art than any other emotion.
Unforunately, once the love died, or once the writer chose to stop discussing it, the diarist lost interest in the journal. It became too painful, or the fire wasn't there. Inspiration was lost, or the diarist was disgusted by the outpouring of sentiment.
This is not unusual. At least half of the journals I've ever run across have begun with the words "this is about Love" and ended two or three months later. Forunately, my friends are consumate journalists and have resolved to continue -- to return to the philosophy and humor that made me befriend them in the first place.
That is what New Love does to a person. Even when it is unrequited, (which is better, since at least that provides a clear framework,) it's a constant static in your brain. Even though you're having a wonderfully entertaining conversation, there is a part of you that's thinking "I would rather be talking about my obsession with [person]. I hope someone gives me an opening." Instead of writing an entry about the movie you just saw, or your wife's green belt test, or the process of a college emptying for the summer, you start meta-analyzing everyone's general proclivity to obsess over love as a sad excuse for dwelling on your own feelings.
And of course, the best part of this -- the best part -- is that I won't even know whether he's worth any of it until months down the line, because my current emotional state renders any attempt at a rational judgement unreliable.
This would all be less vexing if "will" didn't automatically show up whenever I started to construct definite future tenses, or whenever I mentioned the need for self-control. Inconsiderate bastard should change his name.
It's not that I object to the idea of love; I'm rather fond of it, in my way. It's the first month or two that I dread -- the passionate honeymoon period that everyone else seems to delight in. New love is by its nature passionate and overwhelming; those involved (assuming reciprocation) become so engaged in the process of imprinting that they shut out the rest of the world. Personalities are subsumed as every thought, every breath, is about The Other; time spent away is less beautiful, and conversations on different subjects fall beneath notice.
This is an important and natural phase. They've done neurochemical studies to prove it. It's inevitable.
I hate it.
You see, I don't own very much. I choose not to; material belongings hold only limited interest for me unless they are especially beautiful. It's been six years since I've really had a place I could call home; I lead a variable and nomadic existence.
Basically, there are only two things about which I am territorial. The first is my friend group, about which I can become startlingly posessive, albeit in a fairly magnanimous way. The second is the inside of my head, which is the only sphere I can truly claim to control.
Falling in love is like giving up both of them, at least for a time.
It would be easier, I think, if I could better pick and choose when it happened. That's somewhat misleading, because I can choose to fall in love or not -- that's something I've always believed in, and likely always will. The question is one of how often I am granted the choice; I tend to find very few opportunities.
In short, the risk to me is great either way. If I decide to fall in love, I temporarily lose everything I care about, with no guarantee that it will be worth it. If I decide not to, there's no guarantee that I'll get another chance any time soon.
R1: So fall in love without losing your identity.
/R2 nonchalantly picks at the stucco above her head./
R2: (dryly) That's the trick, isn't it?
I've been worried lately about some of my friends' journals. At least three of them have just come within a razor's edge of quitting -- three of my favorites, as it happens. These are people who have kept journals for a long time -- two years, in one case.
In at least two of these journals, the abrupt near dissolution directly followed a month of talking about love.
These posts were beautiful. Remarkable, sometimes. Often some of the best posts I'd ever seen. Love is a powerful muse, especially when it's unrequited. It has caused the creation of more great art than any other emotion.
Unforunately, once the love died, or once the writer chose to stop discussing it, the diarist lost interest in the journal. It became too painful, or the fire wasn't there. Inspiration was lost, or the diarist was disgusted by the outpouring of sentiment.
This is not unusual. At least half of the journals I've ever run across have begun with the words "this is about Love" and ended two or three months later. Forunately, my friends are consumate journalists and have resolved to continue -- to return to the philosophy and humor that made me befriend them in the first place.
That is what New Love does to a person. Even when it is unrequited, (which is better, since at least that provides a clear framework,) it's a constant static in your brain. Even though you're having a wonderfully entertaining conversation, there is a part of you that's thinking "I would rather be talking about my obsession with [person]. I hope someone gives me an opening." Instead of writing an entry about the movie you just saw, or your wife's green belt test, or the process of a college emptying for the summer, you start meta-analyzing everyone's general proclivity to obsess over love as a sad excuse for dwelling on your own feelings.
And of course, the best part of this -- the best part -- is that I won't even know whether he's worth any of it until months down the line, because my current emotional state renders any attempt at a rational judgement unreliable.
This would all be less vexing if "will" didn't automatically show up whenever I started to construct definite future tenses, or whenever I mentioned the need for self-control. Inconsiderate bastard should change his name.
(no subject)
Date: 2002-05-18 06:12 am (UTC)Yer gonna be alright kid. It's the chimps I ain't so sure about.
-Chad