I was struck by inspiration, so I wrote this.
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We aren't people of very much importance. Our lives are mediocre. Life, for the most part, is a bore. Routine. Yes, my professional and educational life is the kind of thing that even the most self obsessed of philosophers would snore at. However, there is one factor of my lonely life that brings me many things- obsession, annoyance, anger, fear, disappointment, depression, and joy.
Obsession. Annoyance. Anger. Fear. Disappointment. Depression.
Just when I think that I am pushed to the edge- that I can't handle it anymore- she does that thing she does without even knowing it. All of a sudden, I forget everything else and feel only one emotion.
Joy.
She makes me happy- even for a fleeting second, it's there.
Perhaps I am a masochist. I do like it when she scratches my back really hard during sex. And I do enjoy chasing after her knowing that I will end up feeling like a fool. All because I crave that one fleeting second of glee... whether it springs from her dragging me out of the house at ungodly hours of the night (without a second thought of what time I have to wake up the next morning) or from her snoring quietly when we take naps together, or even that precious time during a fight- when she gets frightfully angry and walks away... only to look back with that lost little child in her eyes, waiting for me to come rescue her.
That's all she really is, a child.
When life doesn't turn out ideally she gets upset. I don't believe that she fully understands that life isn't like what she read about in her childhood novels, that she will never find a man like Boggart, that she isn't Holly Golightly.
That's just her problem. She wants so badly to fall in love that she allows herself to only see the positive attributes of people she meets. She falls in love with the idea of love rather than what is actually in front of her. She is unrealistic, foolish, and trusts too easily for her own good and that's why she gets hurt. All of a sudden, all of the nice, romantic, wonderful things she built up in her own mind fades and just becomes an empty hole of nothing. She realizes that there was nothing there in the first place and she moves on quickly, as if this poor judgment or quick assumption never happened.
She hides behind a wall of temperament. She calls her impatience 'anxiety for life'. She calls her fear of death 'seizing the day.' She calls herself a wild thing with no purpose or direction and she pretends to be okay with it, but really, her dim future consumes her imagination with thoughts of eternal loneliness.
Yes, she's selfish and unrealistic. I don't really know why I am okay with that but maybe I want to rescue her as much as she wants to be rescued. Maybe I want to cure her of this disease that forces her to live in a made up world and not reality. Maybe I want to be the one to convince her that reality is better than scripts written by lonely men, than novels written by people who know nothing about real, all consuming love.
Or maybe I am just an idiot.